


The office life

by animal



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Bet gone wrong, F/M, Rey is a lazy-ass employee and she isn't sorry about it, Unrequited Crush, accountant!Ben, also featuring socially inept Ben Solo, dead-end jobs, living under capitalism, some 90's/2000's house music thrown in the mix, some trace of the concept of wage slavery, the softest ben of them all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2020-10-19 11:48:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 41,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20656736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animal/pseuds/animal
Summary: Rey Jones’ goal in life is to collect her paycheck while not doing more than the strict minimum at work. She doesn’t mind occasionally going out with her coworkers in the process; it doesn’t happen too often, and most of them are pretty okay people.Ben Solo, however, is a colleague she’ll never get to know even remotely, as he always declines his coworkers’ invitations.Susmita Warsi, meanwhile, thinks that if Rey Jones were to ask him out personally, Ben Solo would make an exception.





	1. Colorful personalities

Rey should not turn the volume all the way up. 

It’s not good for her ears, and with her headphones she also doesn’t realize it when the small movements of her head make her chair squeak to the rhythm of the music -although when _ that _happens she can count on Sanchez to come and wordlessly yank on the cord. 

If she doesn’t make a conscious effort to just mouth them, she often catches herself muttering along the very repetitive lyrics of the late 90’s-early 2000’s European house music she’s particularly fond of. Which means her colleagues have to put up with her whisper-singing that she can’t _ waaaait for the week! end! to! begin! - _ since they all work in the same open space, save for the manager, of course, who has an _ actual _office down the hall. 

Rey’s job title is _ operation analyst _. It means she’s in charge of technical support -for sixteen employees total, manager included. She’s not in any danger of getting overwhelmed. 

Even so, her mission in life is to do as little as possible without getting fired.

The forty-something year old man she replaced a year and a half ago, was let go by people higher up for taking too much sick leave -due to pretty debilitating depressive episodes, she was told. Rey’s never been absent once. But she’ll be damn if she actually makes an effort.

And it’s no secret around the office either. Most of her coworkers have identified her as a self-indulging half-asser within the two months following the end of her trial period. 

She can’t imagine anyone working here for a reason other than that they couldn’t get a job anywhere else. But she could be wrong. _ Some people are alienated to this system enough that they believe they’re playing an important role no matter what they do for a living _, her inner emo teen self scoffs.

She takes twice as long as she should to complete a task, no matter what task, because she takes _ many _breaks. Doodling, checking twitter, eating, checking reddit, making herself a coffee, or clicking on one suggested youtube video after the other until she forgets what she was looking for in the first place.

When she’s not at her desk, which happens more often than not, she’s hiding in the break room, the copy room, the bathroom -or the stairs.

The office life turns you into a parody of yourself. You might not like it, but you’ll always end up being labeled as one archetype or another. Rey has her own index cards about her coworkers.

Susmita Warsi, for instance, is always cold, no matter what the room’s temperature is. Her face is permanently schooled in a blasé expression. She _ will _silently hold a grudge without ever confronting anyone about it. Has a much higher IQ than average. Will tell you she’s too old for this shit, despite being twenty-nine. 

…Or Jordan Taylor, thirty-one. Always late. Clumsy as fuck. Has been in trouble for accidentally damaging company’s property. Is often enthusiastic about things that aren’t worth being excited about, like team-building exercises. Misunderstands directives fifty percent of the time. Means well. 

They are the two top sellers of the office, and Rey mainly hangs with them. But she’s not complicated. She’ll chat with anyone if it means she’ll get paid doing it. 

...anyone with the exception of Solo, of course -because Solo is painfully awkward and secretive, and not in an endearing way. Talking about turning into a parody of yourself. 

He’s an accountant -every office needs at least one of those- and he’s very dedicated to his job, god knows why. It doesn’t seem like his identity is defined by anything else other than his work, which is preoccupying, as everyone knows how accountants generally have colorful personalities to begin with. 

Solo comes into work not one minute early, not one minute late, and leaves the same way at five.

He wears a white dress shirt, and a navy blue or black tie with dark slacks_ every. Single. Day _ -not that she should judge, since herself usually wears the same type of plain, ugly skirt and blouse the company dress code forces her to wear. He’s tall, stiff, and overall just graceless, because he doesn’t seem to have ever learned how to deal with how large his frame is. She’s never seen him without his thermos; and he always eats at his perfectly clean and organized desk, away from the kitchen or the break room.

A furtive nod of his head is how he says hello. Then for the rest of the day he’ll typically hide behind his hair and avoid eye contact at all cost. 

Her colleagues have repeatedly tried to include him, but she’s never seen him show up for anything outside of the office. Some who have worked with him for _ years _don’t know shit about his private life. 

The only time she can remember him ever talking to her, is when the update of a software on his computer went wrong, six months ago. He lets her sit in his chair, then, and very quietly thanks her once she's done. “...thank you, Jones.”

So he’s polite. He politely ignores people, and politely avoids them. 

Either way, Solo shares the same fate as the rest of them: stuck in a dead-end job in a very small branch of what used to be the top cardboard boxes manufacturer of 1992 in the state: _ BBox Inc _. 

Thirty years later, BBox is barely worth anything. Here at the office, the manager herself, Deborah, is very relaxed, because there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Everyone is low-key aware of the whole situation, and of how precarious the future of the branch is. 

Not that Rey personally gives a shit. At least she hasn’t wasted ten years in this building like Solo has. 

Who she works for, and who she works with ultimately doesn’t matter to her. Those people aren’t meant to stay in her life, and they aren’t a family substitute. 

None of them would bat an eye if she disappeared from their lives. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I can't wait / for the week-end to begin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lfPu6oVLN3c)


	2. Early signs of a meltdown

Milo’s birthday is on Thursday.

Everyone in the office knows about it, because Milo has made it very clear that he’ll be drinking his head off at a karaoke club in town, if anyone wants to come. As per usual when there’s a birthday, people are free to participate to a money pot and sign the card Sanchez bought with his pack of cigarettes. 

Rey is sitting between Warsi and Taylor in the kitchen. She’s eating her lunch while the other two are complaining about the birthday party happening on a Thursday, when Solo comes in. Rey distractedly chomps on her sandwich, her eyes following him. 

At lunch, his sleeves are always rolled up to his elbows, to make sure he doesn’t stain them while eating. The plain tin lunch box he takes out of the fridge looks comically small in his hand. Before leaving, he stops by the counter to take two paper napkins; then exits the room to go eat at his desk. 

It doesn’t look like Warsi and Taylor take notice of his very brief presence, at first, because they don’t pause at all in their conversation. However, the second he’s out of earshot, Warsi asks while moving the rice around in her dabba with her fork, as if bored by her own question: 

“Should we invite Benny? ---I mean he’ll say no, but someone should invite him anyway.”

Warsi has taken the habit of calling Solo _ Benny _behind his back a long time ago, before Rey even worked here. It had initially led her to believe that they were close friends, before she learned soon enough that Solo isn’t close with anyone. 

“Why bother,” Taylor replies just as flatly. 

Rey zones out, slow-chewing a bite, half-listening to the back and forth between the two. 

“He gave more money than anyone, you know.”

“Okay but he won’t come.”

“More money than Milo deserves.”

“Can’t fight you on this.”

“It’s just a matter of being polite.”

“He didn’t even sign the card.”

“He never does.” 

“I don’t think he’ll notice if we invite him or not,” Taylor sighs, before adding: “or care.”

“I think he’d come if Jones was the one inviting him.”

Rey frowns at the sound of her name, but her eyes remain zoned out, staring at nothing. She still grunts a _ Uh? _ that neither of the other two pay attention to. 

Warsi’s statement comes from absolutely nowhere, yet she says it like she thought about it. “A hunch I have,” she shrugs, before Taylor dispassionately and very matter-of-factly dismisses her _ hunch _: 

“...no he wouldn’t.”

“I don’t remember him ever saying a full sentence to me,” Rey mutters with a slack jaw, “I don’t know if I could identify his voice.”

“Doesn’t discredit my theory,” Warsi goes on with a mouth full.

“It does, actually.” Taylor calmly puts his fork down, then proceeds to explain with an even voice: “It’s very cute that you’re trying this hard to save this man from himself, but him coming on Thursday is not happening, no matter who asks, and certainly not if _ Jones _asks him.”

“So mean, but so true,” Rey mutters again.

“He’s talked to me a handful of times ---”

“That’s so many more times than me-” Rey comments. 

“--and we’ve worked together for _ years_. I don’t know if I should pity him or feel insulted. Probably both.”

Ignoring all of that, Warsi narrows her eyes, as if thinking hard about a deep, philosophical problem. “Now that I think about it, he’d say yes to a _ date _with her, sure, but probably not to a night out with all of us, you’re right.”

Taylor’s eyes narrow too. “...is this a bit, or what?”

“Somewhere quiet.”

“Sus’.”

“I think a group of people intimidates him more than a single person does.”

“You think wrong. That would also heavily depends on the person.”

“He’s uncomfortable when in presence of several people at once.”

“He’s uncomfortable when in presence of anything that breathes.”

What happens next is a spur of the moment thing. Something inconsequential. It barely has the potential of becoming a fun anecdote later. Rey pushes on her hands and gets up, the chair sliding back behind her. 

“Let’s not wonder any longer,” she boldly announces, a finger in her mouth to remove some bread stuck between two molars. “I’ll settle this for you.”

“Jon--” Taylor starts, about to shake his head, but Rey stops him by pressing her index on his lips with a tired _ shhhhhhhhh _ . She hiccups, like a drunk, then burps in her mouth, like a drunk, before blowing the air in his face, like a drunk _ frat boy _ -making him close his eyes and grit his teeth. 

“...thank me later,” she winks, leaving them. 

“...see what I mean?” She hears behind her. “How can you say that’s someone _ Solo _would be comfortable around?”

The walk between the kitchen and Solo’s desk is a relatively short one. 

He’s standing not far from it, looking down at a binder, his back to her. 

Most of her colleagues haven’t taken their lunch break yet; they’re at their desks, finishing one thing or another before they do; typing a quick email, checking their appointments, and essentially not paying attention to her -yet. 

She’s almost nervous, she snorts inwardly, to be about to talk to him, even if the exchange is bound to be _ very _brief. The outcome is a foregone conclusion, but the point of this for her isn’t really to prove Warsi wrong. 

It’ll be quite entertaining, in and of itself, to see the face Solo will make when she, a coworker he’s never looked in the eyes, asks him out on a _ date_. He’s shown early signs of a meltdown for far less than that. 

Let’s just say she wouldn’t mind someone recording the scene. 

If her colleagues aren’t too focused on their work, some might witness the conversation too, and that, is another reason why this is so worth it. She just can’t wait to catch the face Sanchez will make when he hears her, if he’s not on the phone right when it happens. 

Solo’s lunch is untouched on his desk. She approaches him from behind, stands there for a few seconds, smacking her lips. She’s never stood that close to him. 

When he doesn’t react, she taps on his shoulder: “Solo.” 

He _ flinches, _and immediately turns around, the binder still in his hands. 

His eyes meet hers for a total of two seconds before he brings them back down on the binder. She takes a deep breath. 

“Are you free this Thursday after work?”

Predictably, he’s wary. There’s progress, though, because he’s staring at her collarbone when he asks:

“...why?”

Here it comes. She glances at Sanchez, who’s just sitting at his desk and writing something down on a post-it. 

_ “...Would you like to go on a date with me?” _

Solo’s knuckles turn white, his hands suddenly gripping the binder _ tight _. 

What passes on his face is difficult to identify, and it’s probably a mix of many things, but if she had to guess what it is that has the upper hand on the rest, she’d say it’s sheer _ panic _. 

A blush slowly creeps up his neck, turning his ears a lovely shade of pink. She _ cannot _look away. 

His discomfort is equally captivating and painful to watch. She should just drop it, reassure him and tell him to breathe, that it’s a joke. She should. But she doesn’t get to really consider the idea. 

Very softly, Solo unexpectedly gives her an answer. 

“...yes.”

Precisely because it’s unexpected, she doesn’t register it immediately. 

When she does, her thoughts come to a dramatic halt. 

She freezes.

_ What was that? _

Her mouth opens, ready to be of use, but her brain doesn’t provide any word. 

Slowly, Solo looks up from his binder, probably because her stunned silence is leaving him hanging, and she knows she should school her face back into her usual nonchalance, or _ speak _ , or do something, but she _ can’t _. 

Her eyes stare wide at him. She can’t fucking make sense of what’s happening. 

On her left, Sanchez’s chair creaks, and in her peripheral vision, she catches enough movements to understand that he’s slowly pivoting on his chair to face them. 

He’s gaping. 

“_ What_.” She finally croaks. 

He’s uttered a very low and very shy _ yes_, but it seems quite a few people still heard him, because the soft clatter of keyboards around them slows down.

Solo’s blush intensifies when he murmurs: “I’m… I’m sorry, what was the question? I must have misheard.”

Rey blinks. 

_“Right!” _

Relief washes over her. “Right. _ Of course _ .” She swallows, nodding, then lets out a nervous laugh. “...I think you misheard too. I _ said _ ,” she shakes her head, articulating the words more than is necessary: “Do-you-want-to-go-on-a- _ date _ ? With _ me _,” she adds, pointing at her chest. 

Hard to say what reaction she expects, then. Maybe not for him to go _ oh, right! Good one… How grotesque! Why would I date you? _But she imagines he’ll be confused, at least, perplexed. 

...well if he is those things, his answer remains the same. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “...yes?” 

This time, she doesn’t need to ask again. She still manages to be as shocked as the first time.

He blinks down at his binder, his hair falling across his eyes. “...I heard correctly.”

Arms at her sides, she stands there. 

Solo, fucking _ Solo _, who avoids the most mundane interactions with people, is currently able to form actual sentences, and it’s more than she can say. 

“Ok,” she finally rasps. “Nice. I’ll---” She nods once at him. “I’ll send you... the info.”

“Alright,” he practically whispers. 

When she turns away from him, she catches sight of several heads hastily stooping down to hide behind their monitors, while others precipitately look the other way. 

In her effort to process what happened, she doesn’t even return to the kitchen. 

She sits at her desk, then leans forward to get her face close, _ real _ close to her computer. Once she’s hidden, she mouths a silent _ what the fuck??? _ at the screen. 

When she straightens up, her eyes find Warsi, who’s standing in the kitchen doorway. 

  
  


The petite woman is simply looking at her -her collected expression one of an almighty puppet master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Think of tomorrow / We beg, steal or borrow / To make all we can in the sun / While we are moving / The music is soothing / Troubles we thought had begun](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vgtgUSOLQyY)


	3. A good compromise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments made me smile like an idiot
> 
> Thank you so much for reading <3

Rey puts her headphones on, and turns the volume all the way up. She needs to calm down -and apparently, not even house music can do the fucking trick. 

A switch has been flipped. Since Rey asked Solo out, everything around her looks and feels uncannily different, like she fell into a parallel universe.  _ She doesn’t like it. _

To think she had the audacity to come into work this morning with the confidence it’d be a regular shitty day, like the others. 

The afternoon is going to go by excruciatingly slow. There’s no way she’ll get any work done today. 

_ A date. With Solo. Solo. On a date with her.  _

She tests the words out, tries to visualize it in her mind’s eye while looking at him from afar, but all she sees is a way too quiet accountant who doesn’t seem to have any hobby. If she was curious about him, is there even anything to be curious about? 

God, this is not helping. She’s just sweating.

On his end, Solo seems to be going through an existential shift of his own. Two different times she catches him staring at the screen, but he’s clearly not analyzing any spreadsheet on there. His chest is slowly rising and falling. His hand is on the mouse, but he’s not moving it . 

If she kept quiet, never brought it up again and acted like nothing happened, would he forget about it? Would he even dare to remind her of it? Thursday is  _ tomorrow. _

She’s never felt that stressed out at  _ work _ . Fuck. 

He doesn’t even look her way  _ once  _ -not that she wants him to. It is her understanding, after a while, that he’s in fact actively trying not to.

Two hours go by before she finally yanks her headphones off her head and abruptly stands up. She slaloms between her coworkers’ desks in direction to the kitchen, in need of a break from not working. 

What other options could she have besides going on that date? 

She can’t fake an emergency, it would only postpone it. And she can’t just act like she forgot about it, she’s not that cruel, is she? 

But then what? Should she go to him, and explain what happened? Tell him that she had no intention to go on a date with him, and that she was sure he had no interest in her, and that now she feels cornered, that they just wouldn’t be a good match, because his work seems to be everything to him, and she, on the other hand, just  _ hates  _ this place, couldn’t possibly imagine having a lasting relationship with a colleague, and where is this coming from anyway? Why the fuck did he say  _ yes _ ?

She should probably tell him all of that, but she won’t, because she’s a coward. 

And she doesn’t feel better about that when Solo, who’s actually officially afraid of people, chooses this moment to gather all the courage herself could use, to enter the kitchen. 

Well, not quite. He comes to stand in the doorway, then stays there, and she can’t help but tense. Hopefully, he doesn’t notice, but she wouldn’t bet on it. 

At the way he seems to be looking for words, for a brief instant she thinks he’s suspecting something and is about to confront her. But no.

“I… I know a few restaurants in town, you--”

He sounds like he’s apologizing for bothering her, and she doesn’t make it better by having a quasi fight-or-flight response, cutting him off and stammering: “I had something in mind. Already.”

“Oh,” he quietly says to that. “...okay.”

She expects him to retreat, so as to emotionally recover from this ten second long exchange -but he stays there, his hands slowly clenching at his sides.

As softly as ever, he asks: “...Should I take your phone number?” 

“What for?” She squeaks without thinking. 

Obviously lost for words, Solo just opens his mouth, confused, until she realizes what she just said and backpedals full speed. “I mean, I just meant ---gimme yours. I’ll send you… the address and everything.”

He swallows, and nods once, cautious. And then, because she doesn’t take her phone out, she realizes later, he informs her that he’ll send her an email, because his personal phone number is in his signature block. 

_ His personal phone number is in his signature block.  _ Not uncommon by any means among her colleagues, but a choice she still can’t fathom. _ _

“Okay then!” She cringes, hoping he’ll take that as his cue to leave.

He does leave, and when she’s alone again she sighs, her shoulders dropping. 

When she returns to her desk, she finds a new email in her inbox, from Benjamin Solo, no subject. She opens it and finds it empty, except for his signature block. 

For the next fifteen minutes or so, she stares at that empty email, stuck, her hands sweating. She stares, and stares, and stares. 

Finally, a rush of what feels like panic pushes her to reply with a time and an address, and what she feels is a good  _ compromise _ . She doesn’t include her personal phone number. 

He doesn’t reply, and because of that she immediately starts fantasizing about him standing her up -because he’s too nervous and changes his mind last minute, or because he gets lost and can’t find the place- so she can have a good reason to refuse going on another date with him.

Before leaving the office at five, however, Solo walks by her desk, his fingers clenched tight around the handle of his briefcase, and softly says goodbye to her. 

This time she’s the one unable to meet his eyes. She utters a rushed  _ heybyeseeyoutomorrow _ -then grabs a random piece of paper and intensely frowns at it, as if in the throes of a highly complicated task. 

She watches him from the corner of her eye as he calls the elevator, then disappears in it. 

All evening, she thinks about her  _ date _ . She’s nervous about what will happen, a feeling she doesn’t usually experience, but she still feels better now that she made a definite decision to fix the situation.

The next day, though, Solo doesn’t make her feel  _ great  _ about that decision, when he repeatedly tries to overcome his lack of social skills and interact with her, even vaguely. At eight, he very hesitantly slows down on his way to his desk to offer her a shy  _ hello,  _ that she curtly acknowledges with a tense and rushed  _ hey _ . 

Three times throughout the day, he makes a deliberate effort to be in the same room as her, twice in the kitchen, and once in the break room, even as she makes sure that he never finds her alone. He doesn’t go as far as to interrupt any conversation and demand her attention, or even just participate in them, but he leans against the counter and listens, his eyes briefly finding her before he lowers them back to the floor -exposing himself to the attention of others like he never would have done not twenty-four hours earlier. 

Each time, she pretends to be too enthralled by whatever Sanchez or Tran are saying to even notice he’s there, despite being in fact acutely aware that he is, and of how unusual this behavior is for him. 

Guilt is already rising in the pit of her stomach, but it doesn’t grow strong enough to get her to rethink her decision. 

She’s so anxious for tonight to arrive, and for it all to be over, that she leaves the office early, without a word to anyone, or to Solo, although she’s sure he must have watched her leave. 

Anyone would have found her behavior odd by now, and maybe he does, but while he doesn’t strike her as the persistent kind  _ at all _ , she suspects that he’s desperate to find a kindred spirit enough that he might be mistaking her sudden cold demeanor for timidity.

The sun is already low in the sky when she gets in her car, and after stopping at a gas station to buy herself a beer, she parks somewhere quiet to watch it set on the industrial park. Then, she drinks her alcohol and lets herself get sucked into Reddit’s infinite scrolling until it’s time to go. It relaxes her enough that she’s almost in the mood to be around people again. 

When she arrives, it’s early, and after going down a spiral staircase she finds a fairly empty bar. It’s almost as dark downstairs as it would be in a nightclub. The music is already louder than it should, and the decoration essentially consists of framed vintage liquor ads. 

She didn’t pick the place, obviously. 

Milo, the birthday boy, is so characteristically impatient to get everyone to buy him drinks and get shitfaced, that he’s the first to arrive. Then, the few brave ones who’ve accepted to go out on a weeknight show up: Sanchez of course, Warsi more surprisingly, Taylor, Tran, Giselle and Chloe; then later Lincoln, Patrice and Kellman.

They all get there before Solo does, because she told Solo to be there at nine to make sure she wouldn’t be alone by then. 

They all sit in a corner booth and start yelling at each other over the music in an attempt to have  _ casual conversations _ , and they’ll keep doing that until one of them eventually gets drunk enough to dance. 

It’ll do Solo good to hang with everyone. She knows it will. And if she repeats that to herself enough times, she’ll believe it. The alcohol certainly helps. A first rum and coke already convinces her that really,  _ all of them _ can have a good time tonight. 

If she had prepared better, she would have made sure to sit with her back to the staircase. As it is, she’s facing it, trapped between Sanchez and Kellman, unable to look away when two long legs slowly go down the steps, then stops half-way. 

From where she is, and with how dark it is, it’s hard to identify Solo’s reaction to what he’s seeing. Hard to tell what he thinks of the place, of its atmosphere, or the music. 

Or what he thinks of the presence here of ten of his coworkers, in addition to Rey. 

She gulps down her drink, then stares at Giselle, even though she can’t hear anything she’s saying. Right then, Milo practically jumps over Tran and Chloe to get out of the booth -and what he shouts as he jogs toward the staircase is pretty clear, even through the music. 

“Ben Solo!! Fuck me! I can’t believe you came?!”

Milo, who's already drunk enough to treat him like he’s his childhood friend, pulls a very stiff and unresponsive Solo into his arms. 

Rey looks around the table. Nobody seems to be losing their minds over Solo’s presence like Milo, but she doesn’t miss the meaningful look Warsi gives Taylor while sipping on her martini. 

It’s only when Rey hears Milo exclaim a shocked “ _ For me?? _ ” that she sees the modest bouquet of what looks to be white daisies in Solo’s hand. 

Is it hot in here, or she’s having a fucking stroke? She’s not feeling too good. 

Milo takes the flowers from Solo, who lets him. Beaming, Milo then drapes an arm over his shoulders to lead him to the table. He sits Solo at the end of the booth, offers him a drink, then jogs to the bar before Solo can decline. There’s not enough room for him to comfortably fit both his legs under the table, and despite Giselle’s best effort to scoot over to accommodate his frame, he barely fits on the seat, but he still awkwardly stays there, his back stiff against the leather, his eyes fixed on the table. 

Rey decides to stare at Milo at the bar, at the dude’s bald scalp behind Chloe, at Tran’s fucking  _ tie _ , at  _ anything _ , anyone but Solo. 

Then when Sanchez slams his drink on the table and slurs “ _ Who wants to daaaance _ ,” unknowingly giving her an out, she yells “ _ Me!! _ ” without even thinking, and abruptly stands, almost pushing Sanchez out of the way.

The next forty minutes, she spends them on a nearly empty dance floor, jumping and shaking with her drink in hand to the rhythm of a music she doesn’t like. Sanchez dances with her for some time, then leaves her to it, and she’s barely aware of Giselle joining her later. 

At times, her eyes fall on Solo, on his white dress shirt buttoned all the way up, and she turns away to dance harder. 

After forty minutes of that, her eyes don’t find him anymore. 

She stops, and pants, staring at the empty spot in the booth, then slowly scans the room. He’s nowhere. 

She stands there for some time, blinking. 

Eventually, she returns to the booth and allows herself to sit down, her legs trembling. 

She stays quiet for a good while. It’s very quiet in her head too. The alcohol is doing its job. Her face is burning.

When Lincoln comes back from the bar and asks her to scoot over, she clears her throat and tries to casually ask him where Solo went. Lincoln leans in, so she can hear him over the music: “Don’t know, he left without saying anything.” He leans back. “Typical,” he shrugs. 

Rey can tell it’s not intended to be mean in any way, but she still feels the hypocritical impulse to defend Solo, so she hurries to down the rest of her drink instead.

She winces. Her eyes find Warsi’s, who’s sitting across the table. 

Susmita doesn’t react when their eyes meet. Her expression remains perfectly neutral. 

Rey can’t know for sure if Warsi can guess what happened, but she feels herself getting defensive anyway. 

_ What _ , she thinks. 

She huffs, looking away. 

Solo’s a big boy. 

He’ll live. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Hey! What's wrong with you? / You're looking kind of down to me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJPX8zyUmxQ)


	4. Baby steps

Rey manages to act like what happened with Solo isn’t the only thing on her mind for a good hour or so, then gives up. 

Like him, she leaves without saying goodbye to anyone -but at this point everyone is either dancing or too drunk to notice. 

Kellman, who’s smoking outside, tries to stop her from driving, without success. She needs to be home  _ now _ ; she’ll be fine, and if not, she doesn’t care enough to go through the trouble of coming back here tomorrow to get her car. 

Either way, she’s not thinking about what could happen on the road. In the car, she’s still thinking about Solo, and when she gets home to her empty apartment, she thinks about him some more. 

She shouldn’t. First, it’s useless: obsessing over it won’t change what happened or make anything better. What is done is done. She could have gone on that date and rejected him afterward, but that’s not any better than what happened, is it? 

“No it  _ isn’t _ ,” she mutters somewhat tightly, dropping her purse on her kitchen counter. She’ll need another glass of vodka if she wants to sleep tonight. 

Second, Solo is  _ grown man _ , she huffs. 

He could have _still _enjoyed his night, and made an effort to get to know the people he’s been working with every day, in some cases for _years_. 

Those very good points should be enough to stop the daisies Milo threw on the table in the middle of everybody’s half-empty drinks from popping into her mind. They should be enough, but apparently they aren’t. 

On top of everything, she just knows that Milo will be too wasted to remember that bouquet and take it with him when he’ll leave. Her heart clenches at the thought, but she chooses to take that as a sign that she needs more vodka. 

She’s an emotional drunk. When she lets herself fall on her bed, she numbly thinks that tomorrow, she’ll be more rational about all of this, and that her mind will be clear enough to assess the situation. 

When she wakes up, though, her first thought is that she was wrong about that. 

Her head is pounding, naturally, and her stomach is in knots, but she’s painfully aware that that’s not just a symptom of her hangover. 

Despite a less than cooperative brain, she’s ready in record time, equally anxious to go to work and impatient to find that Solo is indeed perfectly fine, and that everything is in fact back to normal. Only then will she finally be able to put all of  _ that  _ behind her. 

So she gulps down a cup of coffee, brushes her hair into a ponytail, and leaves.

At eight, she’s at the office -the earliest she’s ever shown up at work, by far. Everything is silent, only a few of the suspended lights are on, and Maltès is the only one behind her desk, sipping her tea.

Herself sits at her own desk, turns her computer on, then opens all her usual tabs: Twitter, Reddit, Instagram, and even Tik Tok. 

However, after ten seconds of scrolling down on Reddit, she checks the time on her screen. 

Unfortunately for her, Ben Solo is punctual: he’s never late, but he’s never early either. She doesn’t know much about him, but she does know that. 

Yet, to her mild shame, and even though she keeps an eye on the lower right corner of her screen counting down the minutes until nine, she still furtively looks above her monitor every time the elevator doors open on the other side of the room. 

A few of her colleagues get there before nine, including Tran, Chloe, and Kellman.

By 8:50, her heart beats louder. She can’t really explain it, or care to explain it; she just wants this to be over. She huffs,  _ loudly _ before she can stop herself, when Taylor walks out of that elevator at 8:58. Thankfully, nobody seems to notice. 

At nine, she pushes against her desk and rolls to the left on her chair to have a better view of those goddamn elevator doors. Any second now. She waits. 

At 9:01, the elevator doors do open, and one by one walk out Warsi, Sanchez, Giselle, Milo and Perry. 

Rey remains very still in her chair. But no one follows. 

The doors close. 

She stares for some time, and when her eyes go back on her screen, it’s 9:04. 

Her colleagues don’t seem to notice anything different. They’re quiet, not fully awake yet, especially not the ones who, like her, are dealing with a hangover. Slowly, she pivots on her chair until she can see Solo’s desk.

Not a pen out of place, not a post-it in sight. No pictures, no small cactus or figurine, nothing. No trace of Ben Solo. Based on what that desk has to stay, it looks like he’s never worked here. 

Only the chair gives a poor clue of his presence in this office. Too small for him, he’s adjusted its height to the maximum unlike everyone else, not that it’s that obvious. You have to look for it to notice it. 

At 9:09, the elevator chime makes her jump in her chair. She strains her neck to see who walks out of it. 

Deborah, the manager. Lincoln, right after her. 

But no matter how hard Rey stares at the empty space they leave behind, Solo just doesn’t appear. The doors smoothly close, and she slowly lets herself sit back in her chair. 

Well then he’s  _ late _ ! It happens. She thought it would never happen, not in her lifetime, well  _ joke’s on her _ , because it’s happening. 

Solo’s late. She won’t get to say that everything is back to normal for another few minutes. Fine. Big fucking deal. 

She crosses her arms, then uncrosses them and decides to scroll aggressively, her eyes on the screen. For the next ten minutes, she’s able to pretend like she’s simply annoyed to be here, which isn’t out of character for her at all anyway. 

Past that point, though…

The more time passes, the less likely it seems that Solo will show up at all. 

She’d like to ask someone, anyone, if they know anything about him not coming into work at 9am sharp for the first time ever, but she’s just certain that no one does, because nobody knows shit about that man, and even if they did, she wouldn’t ask them anyway because she doesn’t want anybody to think she actually  _ cares _ , because she doesn’t. 

So she checks the time again, and occasionally looks at Solo’s desk in the hope that it’ll make him materialize out of nowhere.

At ten, however, Solo’s chair is still empty, and Rey has stopped waiting for the elevator doors to open.

What this means is that  _ now _ , she has plenty of time to speculate about  _ why  _ he’s absent, meaning that she tries to come up with plausible reasons  _ other than the most obvious one _ : that this morning, he was simply too hurt and ashamed to face any of them. 

To face her. 

_ That  _ thought makes her want to pull at the skin around her nails, and the skin of her lips, so she clings to other scenarios. 

His car couldn’t start; he was called to meet with someone from headquarters; he’s on jury duty starting today; he has the flu; he asked for a day off before the weekend to travel across state and get in time to his cousin’s wedding; his mother had a stroke, and he had to drive her to the hospital; he’s a Russian spy, and finally got arrested by the FBI this morning-- 

That’s what so convenient with people you don’t know anything about: there is no limit to what you can imagine is true about them. The possibilities are endless. 

At eleven, she leaves her desk to make herself a coffee -but the conversation Tran, Giselle and Perry are having near the coffee machine is about last night and what Perry supposedly missed. That party is a curse Rey will apparently never be able to escape. 

It gets worse, though, when Giselle mentions Solo. 

“Benjamin came.”

Perry is predictably surprised. “ _ No?? _ ”

“Yeah,” Tran confirms, “but he stayed like, ten minutes.” 

Giselle purses her lips. “A bit more than that, come on.” 

“Well,” Perry chuckles, “baby steps, right?”

An innocent conversation, no wrong intentions. But Rey leaves her mug on the counter and immediately exits the kitchen without a word. 

Not one minute later, she’s walking down the hall armed with her last pay slip, heading to her manager’s office. That piece of paper won’t be particularly useful, it’s simply a prop to help her be in character. 

She knocks at the door, and when Deborah tells her to come in, she casually,  _ very casually  _ asks her if Solo will come into work later today. 

Deborah barely lifts her eyes from her planning: “Uh, no, why?”

Rey clears her throat, and tries to remain as vague as possible. “Oh, nothing, just a question I had about pay slips in general,” she says with a wave of her hand that Deborah doesn’t see. 

“...uh?” 

“So he won’t be there this afternoon either?” she cautiously asks again, ignoring the confused look on her manager’s face.

“No, he called in sick… you have an issue with your pay slip?”

“Oh,” Rey stammers, “no, not at all. I just had a dumb question for him.”

“You can ask me.”

“Oh, no! I’m good, it’s really nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Certain,” Rey insists, already stepping out of her manager’s office and about to close the door. “Thank you, Deb, it’s… thanks for the info.”

She closes the door. 

Then, she stands just outside, staring at the floor, biting the inside of cheek. So she was right then. He's sick. No need to lose her mind over this. 

He’s just sick. 

On her way back to her desk, she thinks that he’ll have to be back to work eventually. And all she has to do to see that happen, is wait for the weekend to be over. 

She doesn’t mind waiting, not one bit. Rey loves weekends. 

She loves them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [How did we ever get this way? / Where's it gonna go? / My, my, my! / How we gonna make it through it? / What's it gonna take to do it? ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tb6NCdAVrr4)


	5. Quiet admission

Several times that Friday, Rey tries not to get caught staring at Solo’s desk.

On her way home, she’s sure of one thing: whether he now hates her or not, she needs Solo to be back at the office on Monday.

For someone whose presence is so hushed and reserved, his absence was sure impossible to ignore. For her, at least. Her coworkers have been behaving like it’s just another normal day under the sun. 

But Rey _ cannot _work in these conditions. She needs Solo to be his usual, quiet self, back at his desk where he’s supposed to be, right in her line of sight, so she can ensure that he keeps being unnecessarily delicate with everything he touches, that he’ll keep handling his pens, notebooks and paper clips with outrageous care, along with the rest of his office supplies. 

She never would have thought his absence at work could have any impact on her. Now she finds that it actually kind of fucks everything up a little bit. 

The weekend, to Rey, is the only horizon she turns to, the only silver lining of the human condition. It’s what she waits for all week, and it’s gone in the blink of an eye. Pretty much her entire existence consists in listing all the things she wants or needs to do when she’s at work and can’t do them. At home, there’s so little time, so little willpower left. 

She understands life like a purgatory: places she wants to visit and books she wants to read are always out of reach, chores are left to sit for weeks -and because her mind and her body are rented by a company she hates, she finds herself forced to eternally procrastinate and postpone for later small pleasures of life and basic, necessary errands.

_ This _time, however, Rey, who hates Mondays, thinks that Monday can’t come fast enough. She feels restless, and can’t even focus on any of the mini-series she had planned on watching. To try and shake it off, she goes out on Saturday night, but after drinking too much she’s back home at 11:30 -all because she’s thinking of Solo and his stupid daisies. 

An insufferable, whiny little voice inside her head keeps wondering if he’s okay, and she’s impatient to have him follow his rigid habits again so it will shut the hell up. 

Time goes slow, but eventually, it’s Monday again. 

She sits at her desk and wipes her palms on her skirt. She can’t say what makes her more nervous; the thought of him not coming into work again, or seeing him for the first time since what happened on Thursday? 

At 9, Betty is reminding her of the issues she’s had with her display driver, and Rey nods, but she’s not listening. 

The elevator doors open --and Solo’s there. 

Pale, but not any paler than usual. His hair is the same length; they hide the tip of his ears and curl around his temples. He’s wearing his usual dark slacks and a white dress shirt. He picked a blue tie today. 

His expression appears --neutral. He walks to his desk at a normal, unremarkable pace, casting his eyes down. He doesn’t look at her, or at anyone. 

Usually, she wouldn’t think anything of it. And she _ shouldn’t _think anything of it now either, really. 

He looks fine. Perfectly _ fine _. 

Of course, he doesn’t stop to say hello to her, or anybody, but that’s good, because it means everything is back to how it was before, and that’s _ great _. 

The whole morning unfolds just like any other morning. He dutifully completes one assigned task after another, and they don’t acknowledge each other; so she gets what she wanted, and it’s great. 

_ Should she go and say hello to him _, she wonders out of nowhere. 

She’s thirty, though, and that’s too young to have a stroke, isn’t it? So what the fuck is she thinking?

Hypothetically, though: how would she approach him now? Taylor, Warsi and her are always eating in the kitchen when he comes to take his lunchbox. Couldn’t he join them? Is that inconceivable now, any more than it was before? 

It’s stupid of her to think she alone ruined the possibility of him socializing, considering he’s never shown any interest in doing so ever in the past. 

How would it happen? Before she realizes it, she rehearses the scene in her head.

A casual:_ Solo? ...Want to sit with us? _

Sure. To remind him of junior high and the good memories she bets he has from that time. 

Would he like her to call him Benjamin? _ Hello Benjamin. Benny, want to sit with us? _

At 11:55, she’s in the kitchen with Warsi and Taylor, and despite her heart beating like she’s about to send a rocket into space, she’s not quite decided yet on how to proceed, or even if she should proceed at all. She shouldn’t, she really shouldn’t, she decides. 

However, when she sits down at Warsi’s left, she just unwraps her cold sandwich then puts it down without taking a bite.

Thursday is behind them. What’s the worst that could happen? If she suggests he eats with them, and he refuses? 

Well then he would eat his lunch alone at his desk, and the three of them would stay in the kitchen -like every other day. The ball would be in his court. 

Taylor and Warsi are chatting back and forth, oblivious. It’s almost 12:15, and she can’t eat. 

But she finds that she was right all along pretty soon: there was no use in working herself up so much. At 12:15, no one comes in. 

Because she still hasn’t touched her sandwich, Taylor asks her if she’s alright and she just assures that _ yes of course! _

Warsi calmly keeps eating. 

Rey doesn’t know much about Solo or really _ anything _, but his lunch habits? She knows them. And he’s never taken his lunch break before or after 12:15. 

Hard to believe it, but she eats extra slow, _ waiting for Solo _, knowing that Warsi and Taylor will stay and wait for her too even if they’re done eating. 

Eating a goddamn sandwich can only take so long, though. 

Could he be on the phone, maybe? 

She can’t really check with Taylor and Warsi there. So she pretends she has something to look at on her phone. 

Unnecessary: Deborah calls Taylor from the other end of the hallway, and Warsi blessedly leaves after him with a sigh. She doesn’t really know why she’s waiting anymore, but she is. It’s 12:35, and there is still no sign of Solo 

Could he be eating at his desk already? 

She gets up and opens the fridge. The small tin lunch box that she knows to be his stares back at her, on the third shelf, where he always puts it. 

So she approaches the doorway, then discreetly cranes her neck to see the side of his face. He’s looking down at… something. 

_ Why is she doing this? _ It’s not exactly like he’ll want to sit with her, or like she would know what to do if he _ did _accept to sit with her. 

It just doesn’t feel right. He usually enters the kitchen while she’s already eating, his sleeves neatly rolled up to his elbows. He washes his hands for a total of three minutes. He takes his lunchbox and his two paper napkins with him, then returns later to wash it in the sink -and that’s it, really, but it’s a strangely domestic scene that she’s grown to appreciate and expect.

At 12:45, still, his lunch is untouched, and when she checks from the doorway a second time, he’s still at his desk. Her mouth twists, and her eyes fall on Tran, who’s frowning at her from his side of the room, perplexed. _ What _, she mouths at him. She hides back inside. 

She can’t wait forever, though. Whatever is keeping Solo at his desk, he might be too conscientious to eat before he’s done with it, apparently, and that might be another hour, and no matter how low the standards she sets for herself are she actually has to get back to work. So she does. 

She returns to her desk, and she resists looking at Solo again on her way there.

It takes for her to simply sit, and roll her chair closer to her desk, to hear another chair creak a few desks away from her.

She looks up. It’s Solo’s. 

He’s standing up, somewhat hesitant, his eyes down and his arms a bit stiff, close to his body. She watches as he carefully and patiently gathers the documents on his desk. He pauses, briefly. Then, he leaves his desk.

Her eyes follow him as he crosses the room, the rest of her body sitting very still. 

He disappears into the kitchen. 

Faintly, she hears the fridge door open, then close. 

She sits there, her hands immobile on the keyboard, trying to process what happened, and what to make of it. 

Something in her throat tightens, so she swallows -then clears it, insistently. She shrugs, although it feels forced. 

Well. Okay then. Solo’s habits aren’t so rigid after all. 

In an office as small as this one, it’s not like he’ll be able to avoid her forever, but he can try. 

As soon as she thinks that, though, she allows herself the quiet admission that she wouldn’t exactly love it if he proved her wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You, you are my high / Feel me love you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hKP2x-WFrNA)


	6. Fun mood

Rey was wrong. 

There is nothing that can stand in Solo’s way, when it comes to avoiding her -and she’s proved that time and time again over the course of the following week. 

The smaller the room, the more evident it is, the worst part being that his whole demeanor hasn’t changed. 

He’s not being passive aggressive, or trying to make a point. She feels it in the way he walks, the way he moves. He’s just as unassuming as before, not _ malicious _or vindictive -not even a little bit. 

He hasn’t told anyone the details of what happened. Just generally, he hasn’t talked about her behind her back, nor has he mentioned his feelings at all to anyone, whatever those may be. She would have known if it had happened. Gossips of that nature in an office as small as this one spreads faster than the rumor of a layoff does. 

Solo just keeps to himself, and no one is attentive enough to him to notice how much more subdued he’s been during the past week. 

If he was actively trying to make her feel terrible, she would ironically feel a bit better. But no. It’s just painfully obvious that his only intention is to shelter himself from any interaction with her. 

She’d like nothing more than to snort about it, shake her head and move on, but she _ can’t. _

Her nights are shorter. Despite hating every second of it, more so than before, she comes into work early, now. 

How on earth did their relationship or lack thereof possibly get worse, considering that they never truly spoke to each other or hung out? She wouldn’t have thought it was possible, and yet. 

She could stay hours in the kitchen, and he wouldn’t eat his lunch until she leaves the room. The sudden change in habit hasn’t been subtle at all, and everyday she gets a new confirmation of that change -but after a few days, a masochistic part of her demands that she gets a better proof of it anyway. 

When Warsi stops at her desk a bit before noon, later that week, Rey claims that she can’t take her lunch break right away. She squints at her computer’s screen with a concerned frown on her face, as if confronted with a very serious issue.

Susmita is well aware that Rey would never, under any circumstances, let work delay her lunch break. As a result, Warsi’s disbelief is apparent; still, she doesn’t question it, and just purses her lips before walking away. “Alright.”

Taylor and Warsi disappear in the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later, what Rey hoped wouldn’t happen happens, further establishing what she already knew. 

Solo leaves his desk, albeit with some hesitation, but still -looking down, deliberately, it seems, as if to make sure, maybe, that he won’t accidentally glance her way. 

The ache sits in her chest and presses her lips into a frown. Even if she wanted to fix what she did to him, how is she supposed to do that if he can’t be in the same room as her? 

That additional _ proof _she didn’t need but still asked for, leaves a bitter taste on her tongue. Yet, the moment she hears the water run in the kitchen sink, and before she can think better of it, she stands up and heads to the kitchen. 

Before she enters the room, she hears Warsi’s voice, and her feet slowly come to a stop. Rey has to focus to understand what she says. 

_ “Whatcha eating, Benny?” _

The water stops running, but aside from the chair creaking under Taylor or Warsi’s weight, she assumes, she can’t hear anything else, so she presumes Solo replied but spoke too low for Rey to hear. 

_ “How about you eat with us? It’s just us two, today.” _

Rey flinches, listening closely. Again, she can’t hear anything of what Solo says to that, if he’s speaking at all. Despite herself, she takes two hesitant steps, and stops in the doorway, her right shoulder against the wall. 

Solo is standing by the counter, his back to her and half-facing Warsi. His hands are busy with something in front of him that Rey can’t see, although she supposes it’s his lunch box. It’s not long before Warsi’s eyes flick up to her. “Oh,” she just says with her mouth full. 

That small syllable is enough to get Solo to quickly look over his shoulder. 

As soon as he sees her, he turns back, and echoes a much more quiet _ oh _-a sound from his mouth that Rey catches this time. 

“...Nevermind,” Warsi chews.

Solo is not anywhere close to her, but it’s still the closest they’ve stood from each other in days. 

She wants to say something, maybe reiterate Warsi’s invitation -one she had the idea of giving him a few days ago- but her mouth is so dry, she loses a few precious seconds trying to swallow some spit that isn’t there, while Solo is still his back to her, his hands quickly finishing their task. 

“I--thank you,” he suddenly says before she has the chance to pronounce a word. She freezes and watches as he closes his lunchbox, then grabs several paper napkins -more than he usually takes. “Susmita,” he turns to Warsi with a tentative nod, “But, I--need to go back to my desk.”

Rey tries to hide her shame as best she can when he very obviously flees from her. 

When he’s about to pass the doorway, she steps aside. As he passes, without stopping or hesitating, she hears a _ thank you _ so faint she can’t be sure she didn’t imagine it.

“Thought you had something to finish before taking your break?” Warsi asks her when she finally steps inside. Given her blank expression, it’s hard to say if it’s a very subtle kind of sarcasm, or a genuine question. 

“I do,” Rey mutters, pulling up a chair, “but who gives a fuck.”

“So punk.” 

Lunch break is over quickly, and Rey thinks she should leave it at that, at this point.

There’s nothing she can really do to change the situation. Even in a world where she would have enough courage to apologize, she wouldn’t truly know how to explain what happened. Solo can run away from her forever, she decides. How he feels is ultimately beyond her control. 

Those thoughts somewhat pacifies her, and this time, the whole situation seems to finally come to an end in her mind. An hour passes. She just watches him staple tens of documents, exactly the type of task she cannot stand, and that his fastidious ass typically has unlimited patience for -and she thinks to herself that sometimes, getting over something really _ is _that easy. 

...why then, does she snatch Solo’s stapler from his desk when he goes to the bathroom not ten minutes later? Hard to say.

She boldly tells Tran, who always seems to be looking her way when he shouldn’t, to _ shut up _ before he can utter a single word about the crime he’s just witnessed. 

She nearly runs to the break room, hiding the stapler against her thigh, her arms stiff along her sides, and her heart pounding like one of a teenager who stole a bottle of liquor.

Who knows what cell of her body thought it was a good idea to use a stapler as a bait to get Solo to interact with her -if that’s even the goal, here. 

As if Solo wouldn’t just borrow someone else’s. 

\--now that she thinks of it, he wouldn’t. He’s the type to be very particular with his belongings. What will more likely happen, she corrects, is that he’ll pull another stapler out of his ass, and just carry on, unperturbed. 

Her own behavior dumbfounds her. Is that what _ desperate _ feels like? She can’t be desperate _ already _, it’s only been a few days. 

She hears Sanchez’s voice before she enters the break room. “Betty, come on.” Oh, Betty’s with him? 

Rey’ll gladly join them, and act as if she was there all along if Solo comes to ask where his stapler went -which he won’t, but that’s apparently what she thought stealing it would bring her: the accountant it belongs to. 

She’s never had any problems to just _ directly speak to someone _before. What in god’s name is she doing? 

She rushes to the couch and awkwardly _ sits _on the stapler, next to Betty, another seller. Sanchez is standing, a mug in his hand, a frown on his face, and he doesn’t spare Rey a glance. What they’re discussing sounds important. Not important enough to distract her from what she’s sitting on. 

Her heart beats fast at first; then ten minutes later, she’s already bored. Solo, predictably, hasn’t shown up. And Sanchez isn’t in a fun mood.

“--let’s not pretend like we give a fuck whether or not they stay with us now. You really want to deal with those assholes for the next few months until this boat sinks?”

Rey’s eyes are unfocused, her mind drifting as she thinks about what_ she _’ll do when this company does sink -and because of that she feels Solo’s presence before she sees him. Her shoulders immediately tense. 

“We’re not a few months away from that,” Betty protests.

“We don’t have two years.”

“Well…”

“Still not worth it. I don’t want them on the phone. Fuck them.”

“Did… any of you used my stapler by mistake?”

The three of them turn their heads. 

Solo hasn’t put a foot inside. It’s clear he doesn’t have the intention to stay for a chat, and most probably just wants an answer so he can go back to work. 

Yet Rey’s mouth blurts out the words -causing her whole body to wince at the sound of her own voice:

“Solo, you want to sit with us?”

This isn’t weird, right? Does it sound weird? Does it feel forced? Are Sanchez and Betty able to tell? Probably. But it’s not like she’ll get many occasions to speak to Solo, given how determined he is to avoid her. 

Solo’s eyes find the floor. “I… I have work to do,” he murmurs. 

Not a lie, but she still tries to come up with something else fast that might convince him to stay anyway. She blinks, quickly looking between Betty and Sanchez, who are sipping their teas. 

“...You heard about the layoffs?” She tries weakly. 

Solo winces, his eyes still down. His hand comes up to somewhat loosen his tie -enough, maybe, that he’s able to speak again. 

Not to her, though. 

“Miguel, uh... may I borrow your stapler? If that’s alright?”

Sanchez nods. “Sure, man.”

As soon as those words are out, Solo is gone. 

Rey is left to try to maintain a casual façade. Like she didn’t really mean to talk to Solo anyway. 

Like she didn’t actively try to get him to talk ---to her.

“Why is Solo’s stapler under your ass?”

She gapes at Sanchez, embarrassment making her stutter: “I--it’s-”

He doesn’t seem to be interested in knowing _ why _, and just remarks: “Isn’t that dangerous?”

She nearly cuts him off: “It’s _ my _stapler.” Thankfully, Betty doesn’t seem to care in the slightest about what’s going on.

“All his shit is color-coded, Jones,” Sanchez states, bored by her attitude. “It’s Solo we’re talking about.”

She abruptly stands up and huffs, muttering before she leaves the room -not without the stapler: “Mind your own fucking business.”

“...okay, then.” 

When she strides out of the room, she has in mind to go back to her desk, and spend the rest of her afternoon judging people on Reddit. She goes around her colleagues’ desks until her own is in sight. 

For the second time today, however, her body refuses to spare her. She doesn’t stop walking. 

Approaching Solo’s desk, she doesn’t leave him the time to turn on his chair when he hears her. She thinks she’s squaring her shoulders, which is uncalled-for, given how harmless her opponent is. But she needs to _ look _determined, if not be it.

She puts the stapler down in front of him. 

“Found it,” she lies, while managing to blush only a little. Who cares: he’s sitting straight, but he’s not able to meet her eyes anyway. 

He pauses, looking down at it, then gingerly takes it in his hand. 

“Where?”

“On the ground,” she says with an even voice.

He keeps looking at it, she supposes to avoid looking at _ her _ , and for a second there it feels like he’s about to call her out on her bullshit, or maybe say something sarcastic enough to let her know he’s not _ charmed _ by her quirky ways, giving her the drop of confrontation she needs to finally explain _ her _ point of view -because who can defend themselves if they’re not accused in the first place? 

But Solo doesn’t give her that. 

Worse, for the first time it occurs to her that in his eyes, she might not have anything to apologize for. 

All she hears coming out of his mouth, is a soft “thank you, Rey.” 

Nothing less, nothing more. 

Her dream of a heated back and forth from ten seconds ago vanishes. 

She stands there, gives him an awkward nod -then turns around. 

Back at her desk, she feels shameful, but is unable to exactly pinpoint where that shame comes from. 

She hides behind her computer, and soon contemplates the possibility that it might do everyone some good if she simply forgot about Solo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I feel right, the music sounds better with you / Love might bring us back together](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hf244LCkkLc)


	7. It's a misunderstanding, oh no!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be twice as long, but I chose to post half of it, so the next one is ready and will be posted very soon. After that, I’ll only post again once I’ve updated Cream, so probably in a week or so. 
> 
> I read each and every one of your comments. It means a lot to me that you would take the time to post them. Bless you for reading (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Wage labor takes a lot from a person. 

Social interactions, energy, drive, sleep, time, purpose -anything life is worth living for and that a person _needs _, wage labor takes from you. If the tasks assigned are meaningless or pointless, on a small or larger scale; or worse, if they are harmful, directly or indirectly; if you fix a computer in an office somewhere in the US to make sure a company that relies on slavery will get enough cardboard boxes in time -then it’s easy to lose touch with your humanity completely. 

Rey has a solution for that, and that solution is: “pretend it’s not happening”. Simply abstain from any type of critical thinking. 

The office feels like a mental and physical prison? Life is passing her by? Happiness is an illusion? _Don’t care, doesn’t matter _. 

Anything that is asked of her she eventually does, and without thinking twice. What she wants from life she put in a box and flushed it down the toilets at age eighteen, and she certainly isn’t sad about it. 

Since Milo’s birthday, though, she’s come to understand that some things might have played a more important role in keeping her afloat than she previously thought. And now things have changed.

Rey can’t peacefully appreciate how delicate and soft-spoken Ben Solo is anymore.

Observing him, unbothered, sometimes absently, was one of her preferred activities to do instead of working; now she’s just reminded of the effort he makes to not be in the same rooms as her.

Week-ends are just extra free time she spends thinking of this, and no amount of thinking brings her any solution or comfort. She knows none of this matters, so it would be much simpler if she stopped caring about any of this altogether. 

And she wants to not care very _badly _. She tries to forget about all this, and about him, she really does. But it’s not happening. 

She’s joked about not knowing the sound of his voice several times since she’s worked here, but that’s all it is: a joke. The truth is, any time she’s had the occasion to catch the sound of that voice, she’s paid extra attention to it. Opportunities have been rare, so she’s known not to waste them. It’d happened because Sanchez didn’t Cc Solo again, or because Giselle parked behind him -whatever the reason, Solo would be nearby, and Rey would hear the sound of his voice. 

She would hear how gentle and considerate he was, if a bit stiff and inhibited; how restrained but also mindful of others; and it would make her think of how she approaches people herself, and how people have treated her in the past. 

She sits in the break room, in the kitchen, at her desk, next to Sanchez, Warsi, or Taylor; and while her colleagues are chatting about one thing or another, instead of participating she turns into a very quiet version of herself, and simply imagines what Solo would think of what’s being said, if he was in the room to hear it. 

He would likely just… listen.

That he's the type to listen rather than speak is hardly breaking news. But she used to think of it as a sign of crippling self-doubt or impassivity. 

Now, she’s starting to wonder if it couldn’t mean that he is, in a way, simply --better than the rest of them. 

Even while being determined to at least _act _like she doesn’t think about him all the time, she still tries to casually bring him up one way or another in the conversations she has -not with Warsi and Taylor, she wouldn’t dare, but with people she doesn’t often talk to, like Kellman, and later Chloe. 

God knows why she brings him up at all, because no one is close to Solo any more than she is, and so both times, she fails to get any type of information about him. Thankfully, neither of them seem to pick up on her sudden interest, or to care at least, even though herself can tell she’s not being smooth. 

One morning, before it’s even nine yet, Tran finds her near the vending machine in the break room. When he mentions that he’ll probably do a barbecue at his place in two weeks, and that she’s invited along with several colleagues, the image of Solo sitting on a small garden chair with a plate on his knees immediately pops into her mind.

Stirring her coffee, she fakes a chuckle: “And you probably… have no intention of inviting Solo, right?”

Tran shakes a packet of sugar. “Why is that funny?”

“Uh, it’s not,” she frowns, “I just mean, that, you know, he never shows up for anything.”

“He showed up for Milo’s birthday.” 

“...Right.” 

After pouring the sugar in his coffee, Tran turns to her, pausing: “Do you want me to invite him?” 

His detached tone contrasts painfully with how she reacts: blinking way too much, the words rushing out of her mouth. When she realizes she’s overdone it, it’s already too late. 

“_ Nooo _. Invite him, don’t invite him,” she shrugs. “Who cares? I mean maybe you do, but I don’t. I don’t even know if I’ll be there, so it makes no difference to me.”

Tran shrugs back at her, his nose in his mug: “M’okay.” 

This should be the perfect moment to shut up, but to try and mirror his indifference, she keeps talking: “But you know what I meant… it’s… God help him, right? He never goes out, or talk to anyone, it’s just _sad _.” 

Tran shrugs -again. “I don’t know, he seems pretty fine to me.” 

She cocks her head, skeptic, pursing her lips. “...I don’t think being systematically excluded does any good to anyone.”

“We don’t exclude him --you _just _said that he excludes himself, that he has no social life.” 

“Well he can’t have a social life, if he’s never invited,” she huffs. 

But Tran only seems more confused than before. “Oh okay, so you _do _want me to invite him, then?” 

She throws her half empty cup in the bin next to the vending machine. _“I don’t care,” _she snaps, storming out of the room. 

“Wha---Jones?”

She returns to her desk, lets herself fall in her chair and promptly pretends to work, not sparing anyone a glance.

Solo arrives at nine o’clock sharp, but she doesn’t turn her head this time at the elevator chime, and ridiculously, she’s proud of herself for that. 

Fuck this. Fuck all of it. She doesn’t feel okay. She hates this. What on earth is she doing here?

At noon, she seriously considers asking Deborah if she can go home. Honestly, given how sleep deprived she is and looks, it won’t be hard for her manager to believe that she’s coming down with something. 

_Today is the day,_ though, she later understands. For some reason, when Warsi waves at her from the kitchen doorway, Rey rolls backward on her chair, sighing through her nose, and does as usual. Taylor is already eating when she enters the kitchen; she takes her cold, bland sandwich from the fridge and sits down. 

Warsi and Taylor aren’t talking, for once. The kitchen is filled with the sounds of them chewing their food, when _Solo comes in. _

It’s 12:15, and she wasn’t sure it would happen eventually, but holy shit, she’s relieved. With enough time, even Solo can overcome his discomfort around her. 

It’s a relief, but she tenses up as he enters the room, and she barely dares to look up from her sandwich, afraid she’ll scare him away if she does. 

He takes three steps toward the fridge before Deborah calls him from her side of the hallway. “Where’s Benjamin?”

Rey has rarely seen someone respond to their superior’s voice as instantly as Solo does -like he’s been programmed to. He stops right in his track, immediately turns around and leaves the room. 

Then, everything happens really fast; too fast for her to have any control at all over the situation. 

“How your date went, I never asked you?”

Behind Taylor, through the doorway, Rey can see Deborah and Solo -he’s nodding, his eyes down, and Deborah is her back to her.

Rey blinks at Taylor. “What.”

“_ How did your date with Solo go? _” He repeats.

Blood rushes to her cheeks, she can feel it; teeth gritting and her eyes down, she hesitates before lying: “He said _no _.”

Her irritation can easily be read as embarrassment for having been turned down, so for once, her shame works in her favor.

“Oh---really?” Taylor frowns, with genuine confusion, turning to Warsi, who doesn’t react at all, her eyes not leaving her lentils. “But I thought…?”

“_ I don’t know what you thought _,” Rey insists, interrupting him, “but Solo said no. Like you said, he’s not the type to date.” She’s about to add to the story, make it more convincing, but Deborah is returning to her office -and Solo is approaching. Even though he’s not within earshot yet, she whispers: “Listen, he’s coming back, so can we not?” 

“Right, right, right, _sorrysorrysorry _,” Taylor whispers back. 

The room is silent again when Solo comes in, without looking their way, a document in hand -clearly intending to just take his lunchbox and leave.

He doesn’t have the time to open the fridge, that Warsi asks him, loud and clear:

“Benny, why did you refuse to go on a date with Jones?”

Rey’s stomach drops, and her head snaps up: _“Sus’!!” _

Solo, again, stops right in his track. He turns around, dread apparent on his face -whether it’s because he now has to talk to someone, to talk about Rey, or to deny a blatant lie that isn’t his own, Rey can’t say. It’s evident he’s heard correctly, but a small _what _still falls from his lips. 

“Sus’,” Rey protests again, feeling like a teenage girl stomping her foot at the mall -but Warsi’s attention stays on Solo: “Hold on, I want to hear what he has to say --so is that true?”

Equally furious and ashamed, Rey waits for Solo expose her lie. But even briefly, Solo’s eyes fall on her, for the first time in a long time, and then he looks at Warsi, then her again, as if trying to find out what he’s expected to say. She wouldn’t have thought he would hesitate to tell the truth.

In the end, he goes with honesty, blushing, his hands holding the document tight. “I didn’t… refuse,” he admits softly. 

Warsi opens her mouth in mock surprise, before she flatly comments: “_ Ohmygod _, it was a misunderstanding, _ohno _.” Then, without missing a beat: “Well then it’s settled, you’re going on a date with her, right?”

Rey’s anger dissolves pretty suddenly at that question. Her hands in her lap, she lets the ache in her chest silence her this time. 

Tran’s desk is one of the closest to the kitchen doorway, close enough that they can hear his voice from inside when he chimes in: “_ Oooh… _I get it now.”

Frozen, Taylor has stopped eating: “...what is going on.”

And Rey doesn’t reply to either of them. 

She should intervene; ultimately, she doesn’t care if Taylor and Warsi finds out the truth, and Solo certainly shouldn’t be the one to explain what happened either. But she just can’t speak. Nothing she could say would be a good explanation, when herself doesn’t understand half of why she does the things she does. 

Meanwhile, Solo is standing there, his hands gripping his piece of paper. He swallows, but still doesn’t utter a word, as if looking for the right ones. Solo, who hasn’t told anyone what happened, now knows that she really hasn’t told anyone either. 

“You’re free tonight, right?” Warsi insists. “You seem unsure.”

“I don’t think,” he finally says, quiet and careful, his face flushed, “...that she wants to.”

“Oh, why would you think that?” 

He looks paralyzed, but Warsi waits for his answer. It’s shocking that he hasn’t left already. Rey’s heart is beating so loud that she hardly hears him when he finally speaks. 

“Just… a feeling I have.”

This should happen under her terms. Nothing involving her and Solo should escape her control. He’s not comfortable, and she’s fucking dying inside, how are they in this situation? Can’t an immature woman get some time to figure out her mistakes in this world? 

Her eyes are burning -still, no word comes out of her mouth. 

It’s Warsi again, who gets to snort at Solo’s words: “_ She asked you _, don’t be silly!” -but this time, Solo doesn’t politely stand there. He leaves, without his lunch. 

Warsi is calling after him, and Taylor says something too, Rey thinks, but she doesn’t really hear what, because she gets up right after Solo. She’s in the hallway just in time to see him disappear inside the copy room. 

“Jones.”

Rey turns her head to Tran, who’s leaning against his desk, his phone in his hand. 

“I’ll invite him to the barbecue,” he winks, “don’t worry about it.”

“Shut _up _,” she _whines_. She quickly grabs a random sheet of paper on Susan’s desk, because Susan isn’t there to stop her -then rushes away from Tran. “...I’m not going to your fucking barbecue Tran.”

“...I’m confused,” she hears behind her.

Rey is not so confused for once. She knows what she wants, and she’s heading to the copy room.

That’s the first thing that makes sense to her in a long time -and if Solo doesn’t want her there, well it’s too fucking bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I will rise above the rules / Heart is pure and thoughts are clear / Not gonna mess around / Mum and Daddy would be so proud](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ByK5qt0pRg8)


	8. A sensible, level-headed adult

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, LOVED reading your comments, thank you so so much for taking the time to post them 
> 
> Just a reminder, this fic won't be updated until Cream is updated <3
> 
> here ya go, an update (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

The copy room is small. It’s essentially a closet, with a photocopier inside and shelves on every wall. It can get unbearably hot in there, and it's too dark for comfort. 

Solo never gets physically closer to anyone than what is strictly professional, but two is a crowd in the copy room, and he’ll just have to be close to her this time. 

She shouldn’t be this bold, and herself is surprised that this is how she’s acting after everything --but not as surprised as Solo is when she comes in.

Who knows why he came here instead of going to the restroom if he wanted to be alone -unless he's checked, and there was someone in there already? He didn’t expect anyone to follow him, that much is clear. 

The copy room is usually empty, and he’s the one who uses it the most in the entire office. How many times has he possibly run there to collect himself before? ...and for how long, without anyone knowing? 

Her heart already beats so much faster the moment she sees him. 

Solo is standing in the corner, his head low, pushing his hair out of his face when she opens the door on him. 

“I’m--” he just gasps when she steps inside, the door closing. While she stands there, looking up at him, no other sound follows. 

She takes a sudden step back when he slams the piece of paper he was holding on the glass of the copier, then presses the green button. He comes to stand against it and simply stares down at the sheet, waiting as the machine groans. A bright light soon repeatedly moves across his face. “I’m ---making copies,” he explains, his eyes not leaving the machine, his ears pink -justifying his presence here, as if she just caught him jerking off in the middle of the paper reams. 

“Me too,” she lies, waving the nearly blank sheet of paper Susan had on her desk.

Her eyes fall on the screen between his hands, then. He’s likely repeated a previous operation by accident, because a total of seventy-five copies are about to be printed. She clears her throat. “I’ll wait.”

For a whole minute maybe, there’s just the patterned sound of the copier doing what it’s meant to do. 

Now, having him standing there, so close that she could reach and touch him, so close that she can catch the details of his profile or even the faint scent of his laundry detergent, her courage is slipping away. She’s not truly aware of that until she feels the slight tremor in her voice. 

“Solo?”

“Yes?”

She blinks at the absence of hesitation from him -although it makes sense that he was waiting for her to speak. 

There’s a long silence during which she tries to figure out what she even wants to say. The intention of finally having a conversation with him was clear in her mind, but she’s neglected to decide what she wanted that conversation to be about in the first place. 

His eyes are fixed on the glass, and he doesn’t urge her, probably because he wouldn’t mind it if their exchange ended there. Still, he seems to be expecting her to continue.

“Can we talk?” 

_ “Now?” _

_That_, causes her to nearly flinch. She shouldn’t interpret it as anything else than discomfort for a situation he wasn’t ready for. But even while probably being the person who can sympathize with him the best, it still hits her right where it hurts, and she can’t help but deflates a little. 

She holds her piece of paper with both hands, unable to add another word yet looking for something to say nonetheless. She still doesn’t have a plan. She still doesn’t exactly know what she came here for, however determined she was. 

But he turns his head just so, not quite to look at her, yet enough to acknowledge her attempt. His eyes still down, he throws her a line. 

“What is it?” 

It’s said very softly. There it is, Solo's patience, even with her, even while he's as nervous as her, and even though he has every reason to feel he's the vulnerable one after everything; he still treats her as if she’s the one who needs kindness the most. 

It’s all she needs to go ahead, even if her voice is somewhat uneven:

“I… I’ve heard of a restaurant, that I think you would like.” 

His hands tighten around the keyboard of the copier. She wouldn’t be able to exactly tell what goes on in his head, but there’s no sign of anger, so it doesn't stop her. 

“Can’t remember the name. I’ve never been, but I thought you might like to go there, or... maybe you’ve been already, but -if you haven’t, or if you’d like to go again--” She’s rambling. “We can go together. I saw you eat a Tajine, once, so I think--” She blushes  _ furiously  _ hearing herself, feeling grotesque for basing her choice of restaurant on something he ate once, and that he might not even remember eating.

“I thought, if you like Moroccan food, you…” she trails off, her mouth dry. “It’s a Moroccan restaurant,” she explains, immediately feeling even stupider than a second ago. This is excruciating. 

Solo doesn’t react. It almost seems like he hasn’t heard a single word she said, or like he’s not aware that he’s expected to respond. Her throat tightens. 

“We’d go... just the two of us,” she pitifully adds. This time, she spoke so low she honestly can’t be sure he’s heard her, especially over the machine. 

For what feels like a long moment, the copier keeps on copying, and he stares at the sheet on the glass. The whole time, she has to stand there like she doesn’t want to disintegrate into thin air; like she’s a sensible, level-headed adult who can endure that type of situation with no problem at all. 

Without turning to her, but still softly, he asks: 

“Can I think about it?”

“Yes,” she nods with a small voice, “yes you can.”

He can’t meet her eyes, and his shoulders are visibly stiff. But he goes around her to the door calmly -and leaves the room. 

The machine is still going, and she’s left alone with it, pushing out a sigh. She pulls on her top. Her fingers are trembling a bit. Her face is burning.

It’s reasonable, perfectly reasonable. This is a better outcome than she could have hoped for. Everyone’s entitled to think about it before they accept to go on a date,  _ it’s perfectly fine _ , she thinks again. The copier’s light is still going back and forth. She cancels the operation. With great care, she removes the original and the copies, as if he really actually intended to make them, and finally steps out. 

Fresh air. Well, as fresh as it can be in here. 

Getting to the main area, it’s not any more quiet than usual, she’s sure, but it feels like it. Nobody is spying on her, she’s sure. 

But it feels like it. 

Still, she holds the sheets carefully to her chest, and walks with a straight face to Solo’s desk. He’s in his chair. She approaches, and leaves the copies on his desk, without a word. 

She doesn’t look around to see if anyone has been watching her, for her sanity's sake, and walks back to her desk, convinced that her face alone can be read like a book. Fuck it, she doesn’t regret anything. 

Sitting at her desk, she feels more serene than she’s been in two weeks -maybe more serene than she’s been in months. Or rather, it’s a strange state, really. She’s anxious, undeniably, yet also at peace. What she did matches her feelings, and it doesn't happen often. She’s also a little bit dying inside, but that’s okay. 

This time, when she imagines what a date between her and Solo would be like, she’s not worried about his lack of conversation. The restaurant she thought about is really small, the tables are small, and they would be sitting very close to each other. She imagines he’d prefer to sit in the back, because everything about him points to his inclination to hide and shelter himself, his frame and his ideas, as much as possible. 

He wouldn’t talk much. But maybe, just maybe, she has things to say that he wouldn’t mind hearing about.

She won’t lie and say her anxiety doesn’t increase steadily during the next four hours. Many times she glances at Solo, but the more she finds him just typing, or sitting immobile in his chair, the more she feels anxious looking at him, and soon she makes the conscious effort to not look at him at all. 

She gets some work done on Chloe’s computer, expecting it’ll distract her, but not really. The afternoon is going to come to an end, and she kind of regrets giving him some time to reply. If he’s sitting on a rejection, it might hurt her more the longer he delays it. How long is he about to make her wait? Until the end of the day? Tomorrow? A week? 

How will he do it? Is he about to approach her desk any minute now, and quietly let her down? In front of the others? It doesn’t sound like him, but she can’t help imagining it. God, she’s sweating so much. 

She’s prepared to stay at her desk until he leaves to be sure she’s available if he wants to tell her today, but also, fucking running away from here is a really, really tempting option. She doesn’t even need to grab her vest, she could just sprint to the elevator, and leave everything as is. Later, she could call Deborah and come up with an excuse, doesn’t matter what, she’d find something. She’s never missed a single day of work, her manager would let that one slide, surely ---or maybe not, but even losing her job doesn’t as terrible as facing the current situation. 

...God, Solo doesn’t even have her phone number!  _ She didn’t give it to him. _ If she went home, she’d definitely have to wait  _ until tomorrow _ before getting a response. 

It’s delusion to think he’s hesitating to go on a date with her, even  _ that  _ would be too good to be true. He just doesn’t know how to tell her he doesn’t want to. 

The idea of him leaving the office without addressing their secret elephant in the room is crushing her. She tries to convince herself it’s not the end of the fucking world if it happens, but then, she starts staring at the time on her screen. 

Ten whole minutes before five, what she feared would happen happens -and Solo stands up.

Her eyes stay on him very briefly, but enough time to see he’s grabbing his briefcase, then his thermos. She bites her tongue, and pretends she doesn’t notice. 

Even from the corner of her eye, she can tell he’s heading to the elevator at a faster pace than usual, without pausing at any point. She hears the elevator open, and it gets really uncomfortable for her to swallow. No one else seems to notice Solo's early exit.

She zones out, not even facing her computer’s screen.

What is left to do now except go home? 

After a few minutes, some people around her are already packing their stuff, chatting quietly, while some will stay another hour. She’s not in a hurry to go home herself, today. Nothing's waiting for her there. 

Blinking back to the present, she moves her mouse and her screensaver vanishes. One by one, she closes her tabs, checking if she has any message on Reddit or Twitter, like a loser -then freezes right before she closes her inbox. 

At the top of all the emails she hasn’t read, sits an email from  _ Benjamin Solo _ with no subject. It was sent eight minutes ago. 

Beryl Brown, from the HR department, has also been cc’d.

Rey’s heart skips a beat, but she immediately opens it. 

  
  


It’s fairly short. She reads it several times.

  
  


“ Good afternoon, Beryl. 

I’m sending you and Rey Jones an email you should only read when you’re free to do so. It is not an urgent or crucial matter, and it does not require a response. I want to thank you both for taking the time to read this when you do.

Rey Jones is a colleague I have nothing but respect and admiration for. Anyone can attest of her competence in her field, and I’ve observed her expertise on many occasions myself. Her professionalism is an inspiration, and I also share some of her personal beliefs. 

Recently, she has expressed interest in seeing me outside of the workplace, and I’ve reciprocated that interest. We’ve met once after office hours with several other colleagues. 

Her invitation to repeat that experience is what prompts this email. I no longer feel comfortable with the idea of engaging in any type of social activities with a coworker outside of the office, and I’m informing you both of this today. 

To clarify, there hasn’t been any misconduct on Rey Jones’ part. She has always behaved appropriately with me, and will always be someone I esteem. I hope we can maintain a good relationship, even if it must remain a professional one. 

Regards, 

Benjamin Solo. “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Four to the floor I was sure / I could have it all / if only you were here / Four to the floor I was sure / that you would be my girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X9wqR1XhQ3o)


	9. A massive detour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief summary for those who need it!
> 
> 1\. Susmita suggests Ben would accept to go on a date with Rey if she asked him out. Rey makes a bet with her and asks Ben out. He accepts immediately, to her great surprise, and she gets cold feet.
> 
> 2\. She invites him to Milo’s birthday instead, and Ben comes thinking they would be alone, bringing a bouquet of daisies for her. He leaves the party after forty minutes. The next day, he calls in sick. After that, he avoids her at work.
> 
> 3\. After a *long* process, Rey realizes her mistake and asks Ben out again in the copy room. He asks her if he can think about it. After he left the office, she receives an email from him that he also sent to Beryl from HR: “I no longer feel comfortable with the idea of engaging in any type of social activities with a coworker outside of the office, and I’m informing you both of this today.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /!\PEOPLE/!\ 
> 
> 1\. [Check out Selunchen's art. PLEASE CHECK IT OUT.](https://twitter.com/selunchen/status/1183405300650516481) You won't regret it: it's a representation of what she wishes would have happened in the last chapter, in the copy room.
> 
> 2\. [Check out this art by Spiegatrix: it's soft!Ben, for all the soft!Ben sluts out there.](https://twitter.com/spiegatrix/status/1182391499167862784)
> 
> Please take a minute to praise them both for the time and talent they dedicate to this fandom, they deserve it.
> 
> Because I keep seeing this urban myth on twitter: I read all your comments, each and everyone of them, often several times. I read all of them. I don’t know a single author who doesn’t read their comments and cherish them. Thank you so so much for reading.

Rey can only go through life knowing how and when to shut off her brain.

She does it at work, of course. Sometimes when she shouldn’t, like when she’s driving. At home, too. 

The games she has on her phone are helpful for that. Most of what’s on T.V. help a lot too, and she can also count on Reddit’s infinite scroll. 

But really the one thing that can get her to  _ that place _ where nothing matters anymore in no time is: Jameson whiskey. Now  _ that  _ does the job.

Several glasses of it, and she’s sure to go to bed early. And by bed she means couch. 

At her age, she can’t escape an angry hangover, but at least she wakes up well rested -and those hours of sleep are hours she doesn’t have to spend thinking about what caused her to drink in the first place. She’s a winner.

And if what caused her to drink is the first thing that comes to her mind when she wakes up, well: the line has to be drawn somewhere. She won’t drink before going to work, that would be irresponsible. 

Right? Right. 

Her alarm goes off, and after a groan and a wince she thinks to herself that her screaming headache will probably be enough to distract her.

All she has to do is not think about it. How hard can it be.  _ Just don’t think about it. _

Looking back at her reflection above the sink, she can’t  _ not  _ notice how swollen her eyes are, still. And that’s not even from when she went to bed, that’s from before, in the car. When she was still in the parking lot at work.

_ Don’t think about it _ , she thinks as she pops an advil and laboriously gulps a gallon of water down with it.

She eyes her tousled hair, and sighs.

Is she going to have to wear makeup today? 

_ She can do this _ , she mutters as she tries to brush her hair.  _ Don’t think about it _ , she thinks as she brushes her teeth, topless with only her skirt on from yesterday. 

She  _ won’t  _ think about the fact that the person who so clearly and unambiguously expressed interest in her rejected her in the clearest and most unambiguous way possible. Via email.

And he CC’d HR. 

She won’t think about that.

...She’s thinking about it. She’s thinking about it right now. 

Is that something people do now to turn down a date? Or does that only happen to her?

Jesus Christ, she’s been brushing her teeth for the past ten minutes, that’s not good, how are her gums not bleeding?

She’s late. Well. At least she’s going to work. Unlike  _ some people _ who can’t handle...life. 

Solo doesn’t want to date her. Yes, and? ...So?

At least  _ she  _ tried to include him. She’s not needlessly cruel. At least she didn’t send him a fucking  _ email _ . But it’s--- _ whatever _ . Whatever! Whatever. She shrugs, huffs. 

Alone, in her bathroom.

When she looks at herself again, she’s struck for a moment. She’s been grimacing without realizing it, and she’s… ugly.

She’s going to work. This is not a reason not to go, certainly not, and she’s going. It’s no question that she’ll go to the office today, and do what she does everyday there, which is not much -but she’ll go anyway. 

So what if she feels sick driving there? Deep breaths in, deep breaths out. Given the time, Solo will be there already for sure. She doesn’t care, though.

The first thing she sees when she enters the parking lot, is his car. Her eyes go straight to it. 

She tries to prepare herself mentally for the moment she’ll see him. Sitting in her car, in the parking lot, she visualizes him, and even though her heart clenches at the mere thought of seeing him, by the time she gets out of the car, she’s somewhat convinced herself that she can handle this. 

She takes that fucking elevator, and checks the time again. She really is late. The doors open, letting in the gentle clatters of keyboards, phones ringing from the main room, and Solo... 

Solo is on the other end of it, at his desk, where he’s supposed to be. He’s wearing a white shirt a size appropriate for him,  _ very  _ lightly straining at the shoulders, a navy tie neatly clipped. Nothing about him looks different, except…

This timid, tactful man, somehow, wrote that email yesterday and sent it to her. 

She pulls on the strap of her backpack to place it higher on her shoulder, and tries to get her legs to carry her until she’s at her desk. 

Right when she sits down and thinks she made it, that the rest of the day can’t get worse than this anyway and that she’s handling it okay, Solo pivots just so in his chair, and she catches him glancing at her. 

And for some reason, in her state, she didn’t anticipate the possibility of  _ him  _ looking at her. As a result, she didn’t prepare herself for the shame she would feel either. It lasts maybe a second, but it’s enough for her to want to hide for the rest of the year. Holy fuck.

She must not look at him again. Ever, if necessary. This is too much. 

Hiding behind her computer screen, she takes several breaths, trying to get herself to calm down. If she doesn’t look at him, she’ll be fine. God knows that he doesn’t want to interact with her.

“Hey Jones, how you doing?” Sanchez asks, walking by. 

“Good, can’t talk, have work to do.”

“No you don’t,” he casually retorts, heading to his desk. She doesn’t react.

To numb her mind, or shut her brain off, this time, she decides to gather all the external hard drives she uses, and to dumbly...format them. Then, she’ll reorganize her desk. Then she’ll do the same with whatever document she can find in her drawers. Who cares.

And so she does, trying to keep from looking up at Solo, and succeeding, at least until noon.

Susmita, hands in her pockets, approaches her desk: “Lunch?”

“No.”

“Look who’s in a mood.”

“I’m not in a mood, I’m not hungry,” Rey corrects without looking up from her screen.

“You moody bitch.” Warsi mumbles, walking away.

Rey  _ is _ not hungry, but more importantly, she doesn’t want to give Warsi and Taylor an opportunity to interrogate her.  _ What happened yesterday? Why did she leave the kitchen so quickly, what did Solo and her talk about in the copy room? Why was she late this morning? _

She doesn’t want to go through the shame of lying to their faces again, especially knowing what really happened. And she certainly doesn’t want to go through the shame of telling them the truth. 

Not to mention, she mentally adds, bitter, that she would hate to be the reason Solo can’t get his lunch in time today, what with her being in the kitchen and all. Enough of that. Who need to eat anyway? She’ll skip lunch. 

She does a pretty good job of ignoring the whole world around her for some time, sitting at her desk, but ultimately, that’s what really starts eating at her: that she can’t even talk with him about what happened if she wanted to.

Which, she  _ doesn’t  _ want to talk to him. Who cares. But she knows he’d leave any room she enters. 

Hours go by, and she doesn’t move from her desk. She doesn’t go to the kitchen once, or to the break room. She doesn’t talk to anyone.

Except when Tran stops by her desk.

“Hey, Jones?”

“What.”

When he’s silent, her eyes leave her screen, and Tran crouches down next to her with a conspiratioral smile:

“I, uh. I invited Solo to the barbecue,” he whispers.

Rey represses a sigh. “Great.”

She pivots to face her screen again, but Tran stops her, a hand on her arm. He leans closer, his eyebrows wiggling:

“But get that: before he even said if he’d come, he asked if  _ you  _ would be there.”

While Tran smiles expectantly, oblivious, Rey gapes, horrified.

“I can’t fucking believe--” she mutters, turning her head to see Solo, sitting at his desk. She scoffs, hurt. 

“Of course he asked that.” A fresh wave of humiliation hits her. Can he at least not make it that obvious to the others that he doesn’t want to breathe the same air as her?

...and can’t he really not stand to spend an afternoon with her, if so many people are also present? 

Her eyes start to burn, so, her mouth in a frown, she just says to Tran:

“Tell him that he has nothing to worry about:  _ I’m not coming.  _ Okay?”

Tran blinks. 

“...What. Why would you not come?”

“Because. It doesn’t matter.”

“Okay. I have a hard time understanding what’s going on.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I thought--”

“I don’t know  _ what  _ you thought, Tran,” she snaps, voice low, “we’re not actually friends, we’re  _ colleagues _ . I don’t have to hang with any of you on the weekend on top of dealing with you all week, got it?”

Tran is staring, waiting for her to add something, but she’s done. “Uuum… Okay. Got it.” Stunned, he slowly gets up. “Forget I said anything.”

“Will do.”

Tran finally walks away.

...and she doesn’t forget, even though she really tries. 

No matter the task she throws herself into, intrusive thoughts interrupt her, and the sharp pang of rejection comes back every time. 

Ben Solo turned her down. 

She tries to scoff again, alone at her desk, but she starts coughing and clears her throat. 

What reasons does he have to reject her that she doesn’t know about anyway? She  _ knows.  _ She’s never really been anyone’s first choice, and even when she was a little girl, other children weren’t fighting to be her friend.

Also what in the world was she thinking? Her and Solo, dating:  _ why? _

She risks a glance at him, and against her better judgement, her eyes linger. The curl of his hair on his neck. The BIC pens in his pencil holder. The color-coded binders. His large feet, slightly pointing at each other under his chair.

She chews on her lip.

_ ...Rey Jones is a colleague I have nothing but respect and admiration for. _

_ ...I’ve observed her expertise on many occasions myself. Her professionalism is an inspiration, and I also share some of her personal beliefs. _

She purses her lips. 

What would they talk about anyway? 

...no, really: what would they talk about? 

Now that it’s certain she’ll never get to know him, she finds herself so ...aching to know. What does he care about? What would he talk to her about, what does he like? Is he into a particular type of movies, does he cook? Has he ever pet a cow? Is there something Ben Solo  _ hates _ ? 

Aside from her.

Go on an actual date with him, and then what? Another one? Then have him become her boyfriend?

Go to work in the same car? ...Live in a bigger apartment. Eat take outs together and have him listen to her gossips about the others. Maybe do something different on the weekend than watch T.V. or go to a club. They’d take the car together, drive to the ocean.

She can go to the ocean alone, too, so. She doesn’t need Solo to do that. 

Ben Solo doesn’t want to date her anymore. Ha. He can join the club. He’s not the first, and he’ll probably be the last, because she’s done trying. She’s  _ done,  _ she gets it now. Message received. 

After a while, the silence around her is so thick she looks up and suddenly realizes nearly all her colleagues already left. 

It’s just her, Mark, her manager Deborah probably still in her office, the security guy downstairs...and Solo. 

He’s a bit hunched on his chair, his hand on the mouse, but he doesn’t move it, or scroll.

She checks the time on her screen: it’s well past the time he usually leaves, given how punctual he is about office hours. Why is he still here, does he actually have something to finish up, or...? 

She squints. 

...Is he waiting for her to leave to make sure he won’t meet her in the elevator? ...In the parking lot? 

Technically, she has no real evidence of that. He could very well  _ be  _ finishing up something, past five, exceptionally today. He could. 

And yet she’s so likely to be right it stings more than she could say. 

She has to go home at some point anyway, right? So why wait? 

Without looking his way again, her chin in, she packs up her things. 

She can’t be sure of it, given that she’s not looking, but she imagines his eyes following her, making sure she’s really leaving. Maybe it’s all in her head, but again, most probably not. She mutters inintelligible things under her breath while walking to the elevator, trying to be angry, but feeling her chest tighten. 

In that elevator, alone for the first time since this morning, blinking back tears, she huffs and asks herself if she can really do it again tomorrow. Maybe calling in sick isn’t such a bad idea. A fifteen hour nap might do her good.

The fresh air hits her flushed face as she steps outside, and she lets out a deep breath. What a shit show -and yet, so little happened. 

That’ll her teach her to try to get involved with anyone at work in any way, she thinks, heading to her car -however, her steps slow down when she sees his, and then, she stops. 

Standing alone in the parking lot, in the building’s shadow, she holds her backpack strap with both hands, and looks at it. 

It’s a Nissan, and despite that’s an old model, it’s intact.

Her ears hot, she looks up, at the windows. The sun is going down. It just looks like the whole building is silently on fire.

“Don’t do this,” she whispers to herself. 

Then, she does it. 

She walks to her car, like every other evenings. She gets inside, behind the wheel; turns the key in the ignition, and the engine starts.

The car move smoothly forward, out of her parking spot. Except that, today, her journey stops by Solo’s Nissan. His car is facing the eastern wall, and she’s facing the exit right behind it, at a crossroad. 

She stares at the gate at the end of the parking lot. Then, she turns the engine off.

What’s the plan, an ultimatum? ...What ultimatum?

_ You can’t leave, you have to talk to me. _

Her palms on the steering wheel are sweaty just thinking about actually saying that to him, or what his reaction would be, knowing that he doesn’t want to be near her. 

Does she really want to hear what he has to say? Does she really want to hear him list the reasons why he doesn’t want to date her? 

Already her heart beats stronger as she imagines the scene. 

Oh, she shouldn’t be doing that. What is she doing. She should go home. 

She has plenty of time to leave too. It took a second for that idea to pop into her mind, so she could literally change her mind every second that passes. Yet. 

She stays in her car for twenty long minutes ---and does nothing. 

When Solo appears from behind the building, at the far end of the parking lot, walking in her direction, it almost feels like she’s hallucinating. She can  _ still  _ leave. She could turn on the engine, and drive. But she doesn’t. 

Instead, barely paying attention to him, she rips the key out of the ignition with a shaky hand. She sits there, her mouth dry. 

_ You can’t leave, you have to talk to me. _

...but the moment she gets out of the car, just as he stops his cautious steps only a few feet away from her -his briefcase in hand and his jacket over his arm, his eyes going from her car, to her, to  _ his  _ car -she backpedals.

What the hell is she thinking. 

He looks intimidated, and that’s not new, but other than that the has no clear reaction to the scene. She could get back into that car, and just leave without saying a word. 

Instead, she improvises an explanation, avoiding his eyes and trying not to lose her voice while lying to him. 

“I’ve been trying to start it for the past ten minutes,” she shakes her head. “I just, I’m. I can’t get it to start. It won’t start.”

What the fuck. What the fuck.  _ What the fuck is she saying? _

Her numb mind is unable to think faster than that in the midst of the inner chaos this minor situation caused.

Solo spoke so low she didn’t hear, and without meaning to, she’s too loud in return. 

“What!”

“I said,” he repeats softly, “take the wheel, I’ll push it.”

Right.  _ Right _ . Obviously.

Her face in flames, she mutters: “Alright, thanks, thank you.”

No need to point out she could absolutely push the car herself. It’s heavy, but she’s done it before. No, she just looks at him as he puts his briefcase on top of his trunk, and folds his jacket over it.

Ashamed, she gets back behind the wheel.

Habits are hard to break, and because she’s a dumbass, she’s about to insert the key in the ignition and start the engine, stopping herself just in time. The thought of him suggesting he tries to start her car himself to maybe see if he can solve the problem has her heart pounding. She didn’t think this through  _ at all.  _

He doesn’t suggest that, however. In the rearview mirror, she sees him leaning forward, both his hands on the edge of the trunk, about to push.

Faintly, in the empty parking lot, she hears him: “...Ready?”

Her voice cracks: “Yes!” 

She looks ahead, at the sky turning orange, chewing on her lip, and already she thinks about the fact that she’ll have to act like she’ll the bus, then come back once he’s gone to take her car and drive home. Tomorrow, she’ll also need to be here before him, so she can park her car right back where he will have last seen it. 

She hates herself.

“Rey?”

Her eyes snap to the rearview mirror. “What!”

His face red through the glass, breathing a bit harder, he leans to the side so she can hear him better.

“Did you release the parking brake?”

“Oh, fuck!!” She pushes the lever down. “Sorry!”

Mortified, she checks the rearview mirror again. His hands on the trunk to resume, he pushes, and soon the car slowly moves forward.

“Okay, stop,” she warns once the car isn’t blocking his anymore, to not have him push it to the other end of the parking lot. He stands back up, and she firmly pulls on the lever. 

Her backpack in hand, she gets out and watches him again. He’s by his trunk, pulling a bit on the sleeves of his shirt to straighten them. 

After locking her car, hanging her head, she goes around it, about to leave the parking lot until she can make sure he left himself. “ _ AlrightthankyouSolo _ ,” she rushes out, “See you tomorrow.”

“Rey?”

She spins around to face him. “Yes! Sorry, what?”

His briefcase against his stomach, he avoids her eyes.

“Do you need me to drive you back?”

No, she doesn’t.

“I do, thank you.” She represses a wince, immediately making her way to his car -her common sense gone.

She sits at the passenger seat, of course, her backpack against her chest, her heart pounding. Why is she like this. Why is she doing this. 

It’s an old car, an old model bought at least a decade ago if she had to guess, but clearly well taken care of. The interior is impeccable, and it smells like mint. It’s been vacuumed recently. She straightens her skirt. 

For a brief moment, she hopes Solo will say  _ nevermind, please leave - _ but no, he opens the door and folds himself behind the wheel, the suspension dipping slightly under his weight. 

Suddenly, the world shrinks to the few inches separating them. Rey doesn’t know that they’ve ever been that close before. The air is warm just so, but her face still feels too hot for comfort.

He leans on his right to place the briefcase on the floor behind her seat, so she can easily notice she faint smell of his perfume.

A slight tremor in his fingers is what she notices next when he carefully folds each sleeve twice up his forearms.

All this display of maturity and responsibility has her discreetly tuck her chin in to try and smell her right armpit, still holding her backpack to her chest.

Let’s just say she’ll keep her elbows tight to her sides.

Solo starts the car without a word, and as with everything, he’s delicate with the wheel, grip firm but gentle on each side, he takes his time backing up from the spot. The rumble of the engine speaks for the years he must have been driving this.

Why is she doing this.

Eyes fixed ahead, her heart pounds anew. Who knows if she’ll be able to utter a single word, or what that word will be. 

As they approach the gate, she sees herself telling him to stop the car, she sees herself get out without an explanation. But the car passes the gate, and she lets it happen.

It’s golden hour. Once on the road, the sun, low, gets right behind Solo’s profile. Despite the hour, weirdly, there’s not too much traffic.

She wipes her palms on her skirt, swallowing.

“Where do you live?” He asks.

“Why!” She croaks.

Solo blinks, his eyes on the road, confusion apparent. She sees the phone in his hand. 

_ Oh! _

“Sorry, I mean --my address, of course, here, I’ll type it in.” She takes the phone from his hand, taking extra precautions not to touch him. 

An android of a brand she never heard of, with a grey, solid phone case. As sober as can be. 

She can’t exactly say why she calls it  _ sober  _ now and not  _ boring _ like she might have called it not two weeks ago -and she doesn’t need to examine it now either.

Once her address is typed in, she places the phone in its holder on the dashboard, and leans back. His eyes check the screen briefly. 

A  _ minute  _ goes by. To sell the illusion that she’s not  _ only  _ thinking about his rejection from the day before, and before she realizes that she’s been waiting an awkward amount of time to speak, she asks:

“And where do  _ you _ live?”

His throat works. “I live… a little more south.”

“South?”

“Yes,” he says. “Near the Crespo factory.”

Rey inhales.

...no. That’s an indecent detour. Oh no. There’s been a misunderstanding.

“I... are you sure?”

Solo glances at her. 

“...Am I sure that I live there?” He asks. “Yes.”

Rey stares at the road.  _ What did she do _ . Should she ask him to stop? She can still take a bus, can’t she? 

For a moment, silence is thick between them. She’s never had too much trouble lying to people before, so why is it a problem now? Why is she feeling so bad?

She fidgets with the hem of her skirt, guilt making it incredibly hard to speak when she decides to.

“Um, Solo?”

“...Yes?” 

“I’m. So...so sorry. I’m sorry. My car--” She pushes a loose strand of hair away from her face, her voice small. “My car is fine. It...it starts just fine.”

She holds her breath, pressing her knuckles against her mouth, waiting. Dreading the moment he’ll just calmly pull over -and ask her to leave.

The turn signal is loud in the car, but he’s not pulling over. He’s changing lanes, his eyes still on the road. 

“I know,” he admits quietly. “I was in Deborah’s office, I was watching you when you turned off the engine.”

He sounds embarrassed by that. 

But holy shit, there’s no comparison to be made with how  _ she  _ feels hearing it. The situation keeps getting worse by the minute.

_ He pushed the car. What the fuck. _

She winces, face heating up again, squirming in her seat. Then, the feeling of humiliation is too intense, and she tries to sit straight, clearing her throat; as she speaks, she can hear how defensive she sounds, but she’s unable to help it.

“I had my--my reasons. I wanted to talk to you. But you  _ somehow  _ always manage to not be in the same room as me.”

The tip of his ear turns red. “We were in the same room all day.” 

_ Now  _ would be a great time to concede that she could have walked to his desk and just asked to talk to him, and that she didn’t, because she was scared shitless and ashamed.

“Well... I assumed you didn’t want to talk face to face. You know, what with the  _ email  _ and all,” is what she says instead, hating how her voice cracks when she does, wishing she was detached enough to let sarcasm land the way it’s supposed to.

She stares at her lap for a moment, feeling it’s become hard to even breathe, her heart in her throat -then she looks at him. His knuckles are white around the wheel.

“...oh, you got that?” He breathes.

She narrows her eyes. 

“ _ Yes _ , Solo.  _ I got that _ .”

“I--” he readjusts his grip on the wheel, wets his lips, his voice barely audible. “I read a step by step,” he explains.

Her chin quiver, her voice small again. “You involved HR? ...What the hell?”

This time he looks at her, furtively.

“I don’t know how to do this. I never had to before.”

“Oh, I’m your first?” She swallows, tears welling in her eyes. “Well... I’m no expert either but you don’t send an  _ email _ .”

“I wish you would have sent me an email.” 

Rey suddenly falls very, very  _ \---very  _ quiet. 

“...to cancel,” he adds.

It’s now, when she should be the last person on earth crying, that she needs to cry the most. Her vision blurs, tears roll down her face the next moment, and her hands grip the hem of the skirt again.

“I said I’m  _ not  _ an expert…” She whines feebly.

“You… really fucking hurt me, Rey.” He speaks so softly, almost tactfully, and  _ clearly  _ in the car. “You could have cancelled over text. You could have sent me an email.”

She wants to protest, or defend herself. But everything she’s said so far has made things worse. She quickly wipes off fresh tears with the back of her hand, thinking, but he speaks first, oddly calm.

“...it doesn’t matter considering it was just a bet to begin with.”

She turns to him, mouth agape.

He doesn’t look back at her.

“People talk,” is all the explanation he gives, his voice soft in the car. It doesn’t sound like he hates her. It just sounds like he’s hurt.

The sun is facing them now, low enough not to blind him, but he still squints slightly to look at the road. He keeps adjusting his grip on the wheel, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. She looks down at her lap, her eyes full of tears, the whole situation plainly laid before her.

She ruined everything because she was scared, and now, there’s nothing she can do to fix it.

She could deny it. She could try to get him to see things from her perspective. She thinks about explaining herself. 

Her lips trembling, “I’m sorry,” is all she whispers instead. He hears it, because he adjusts his hands on the wheel again, tightening his grip then trying to loosen it, apparently in vain.

Maybe he  _ wanted her _ to deny it. Maybe he hoped she could prove him none of it is true, and that it’s all a big misunderstanding. But it’s not. 

Something in her breaks. For the first time since Milo’s birthday, it’s clear to her now that all along since she left those daisies in that bar, she never stood a chance. 

All there is left to do now, is give up.

“The second time wasn’t a bet,” she still says with a wet voice, as a final word to the conversation. 

He doesn’t say anything to that. She looks back down at her lap. All she can do is cry, and wait for the drive to be over.

It’s nearly impossible to breathe in the car, the silence is so heavy. Sometimes, she wishes she could vanish for good from the surface of the earth; now would be a good time.

She doesn’t look at him again, and only glances up at the road through the tears, anxious to get home -or more accurately, to get out of the car.

A few minutes before the end of the drive, she sniffles:

“You can drop me off right here, that’s perfect. Drop me off, please.”

“It’s… It’s not…” he stammers -but he falls quiet when she unfastens her seatbelt, pulls her backpack against her chest and pivots on her seat, waiting, her hand ready to open the door as soon as he’ll stop the car. 

She hears the turn signal. 

The car slowly pulls over, and another car behind them honks.

“We’re not there, yet--” he tries to protest, but she cuts him off.

“Thank you, thank you for driving me,” she sniffles as she opens the door and steps out, the traffic now loud to her ears. “See you tomorrow, Solo.” 

She slams the door and moves quickly, without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Lady, I just feel like / I won't get you out of my mind / I feel love / For the first time / And I know that it's true I can tell by the look in your eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRB1MLGEHSc)


	10. Momentums

\---------- Forwarded message ---------

From:  **Jones, Rey. L.** <reyjonesit@bbox.net>

Date: Wed, Apr 12, 2019 at 07:38 AM

Subject: 

To: <benjaminsolo@bbox.net>; <berylbrownhr@bbox.net>

Good morning Benjamin, Beryl,

I’m sending you this to confirm the reception of Benjamin’s email. I would also like to apologize.

Earlier this month, I invited Benjamin to Milo’s birthday party, and he accepted the invitation. Without getting into details so as to imitate Benjamin’s discretion, and despite that he’s not accusing me of anything, I recognize today that I behaved in a way that wasn’t consistent with the respect I have for him as a colleague and as a person. I’ve caused misunderstandings to occur that have impacted us both on a personal level, in ways that I didn’t anticipate. Although my intentions weren’t malicious, I knew that I wasn’t making the right decisions, yet didn’t take responsibility for my actions when I should have.

I cannot appreciate Benjamin’s tact and patience after this incident enough; I only wish I had proven myself to be worthy of his kindness at all. I am deeply sorry for my behavior and for how it affected our relationship, professional or otherwise. I can promise you it will not happen again, and I hope Benjamin can forgive me in time for not treating him the way he deserves to be treated. 

Rey L.Jones, IT

  
  


“Um… Are you okay?”

Ben doesn’t move an inch, hands flat on each side of his keyboard. He glances sideways, not quite able to see his colleague without moving. Sanchez should not be able to see the email on his screen from where he’s sitting either.

Four seconds go by, the time needed for Ben to find his voice back.

“Yes, thank you Miguel. Why?”

A desk away from him, Sanchez pivots in his chair.

“You’re breathing weird.”

“Oh.” Benjamin stops breathing. “Am I?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.” He glances at Sanchez again. The man’s expression is carefully blank. 

“...Are you okay?” Sanchez repeats.

“Yes, of course.” 

He holds his breath some more, waiting to hear Sanchez pivots back to face his monitor. After an awkward moment, he does, and Ben tries to breathe as steadily and quietly as possible.

Slowly, as if numb, his hand feeling like it isn’t his, he reaches for the noose of his tie to discreetly loosen it. 

Then he finds the mouse and scrolls twice on the page to read Beryl Brown’s brief response, from HR. 

\---------- Forwarded message ---------

From:  **Brown, Beryl** <berylbrownhr@bbox.net>

Date: Wed, Apr 12, 2019 at 09:22 AM

Subject: 

To: <benjaminsolo@bbox.net>; <reyjonesit [ @bbox.net ](mailto:berylbrownhr@bbox.net) >

  
  


lmaoo okkk??? lol 

wtf 

  
  
  


Ben scrolls back up. He reads Rey’s email a fifth time. 

Rey Jone’s car hasn’t moved from where he pushed it yesterday, he notices immediately as he drives into the parking lot an hour earlier. 

If it’s still  _ there _ , it should mean that she hasn’t arrived yet, or she would have parked it better.

Last night, it took him three whole hours to fall asleep after going to bed; this morning, he woke up two hours before his alarm went off. The last time this happened, his emotions drove him to be physically ill, enough that he had to miss a day of work. He’s always been easily overwhelmed, and he’s learned to hide it, but this time he feels particularly powerless.

His teachers used to praise him for being such a clean, polite boy a lot, but his classmates weren’t quite as charmed by that. As he grew older, his height and his size became an issue, and his need to hide grew proportionally. Hide his ears under his hair, hide his lunch so no one would take it from him and ruin it. 

With the years, he finds that never voicing his opinion about anything nearly makes him invisible to others. At the office, despite his frame, he often feels like he’s hidden in plain sight -to the point that sometimes he has to wonder if there’s anything that could get someone to care about what happens to him.

When he enters the main room this morning, his briefcase and his thermos held tight to his stomach, his heart is so loud, stuck in his throat, that he feels like it can be heard from miles away, and the familiar impulse to flight is strong. But he needn’t worry. As usual when he comes in, no one bats an eye or looks up from their screen, no one turns to him. 

The second he can, he looks over at Rey’s desk. 

As expected, she’s not there yet. 

The only one who acknowledges him is Sanchez, whose desk is not too far from Ben’s. And it’s because Ben says hello to him.

“Hello, Miguel.”

“Hey.”

Breath a bit short, Ben checks his watch.

Rey Jones is often late, although not by much. She’s very different from him that way, and her lack of punctuality is something that, without being particularly worth noting, Ben notices within a month of her working here. He notices it, because he doesn’t like it. 

There’s just something about that new-hire not developing a clear routine that makes him feel anxious. He doesn’t like that she doesn’t eat proper meals, but bland-looking sandwiches. He doesn’t like that she always seems so tired all the time, or that she seems to care so little about her performance at work and doesn’t really bother to hide it. 

He never quite approaches her, not that he typically gets close to anyone, and he looks at her from afar, when she isn’t looking. When he can, briefly, he eavesdrops on the conversations she has with Taylor and Warsi, lingering in the kitchen a tad longer than he needs to. 

It takes him a while to acknowledge that something is off about  _ his judgement of her _ , rather than  _ about her _ . First, he’s never really felt the need to judge anyone in any significant way before, and he’s not the type to strongly dislike people, certainly not over things that matter so little and have no concrete impact on his life. 

Months pass, and soon, he realizes with mortification that... most of his colleagues don’t have a particular routine, but that it never bothered him in the past. Most of his colleagues eat bland sandwiches. All of them look tired, and most of them don’t care about their performance at work.

With a flush, for the first time he understands that he’s not _bothered _by Rey Jones’ habits or lack of habits, and he’s not _anxious_ either. Those aren’t the states he’s in. 

When he  _ is  _ anxious and bothered, it isn’t for the reasons he thought. It doesn’t matter to him if someone is late other than her. If it’s not her, he never wonders why a colleague is late. He doesn’t worry about the performance of anyone else, because he’s not worried about what could happen to them as a result. He doesn’t spend every evening wondering if his other colleagues would like what he’s cooking for himself.

It’s terrible news. He’s not comfortable with that realisation, not from the moment it finally becomes clear to him and certainly not at any point during the ordeal he’s unlucky to go through after Milo’s birthday.

The past couple of weeks have been rough, to put it lightly. He desperately needs things to go back to normal. 

Rey was crying in his car yesterday, and his heart races anytime the thought crosses his mind. 

He feels like he’s in a movie for a minute, victim of a lapse of judgement, when she first asks him on a  _ date. _

Gut feelings, momentums, impulsive decisions are not for people like him. He never liked fighting with other boys when he was little, he never liked not knowing if it’d rain or not the next day. He’s too quiet. He’s slow. It doesn’t work.

All he has to do now, is to not make the same mistake. He knows better, and it should be easy, a simple rule to follow.  _ Fool me once _ .

_ ...I recognize today that I behaved in a way that wasn’t consistent with the respect I have for him as a colleague and as a person. I’ve caused misunderstandings to occur that have impacted us both on a personal level, in ways that I didn’t anticipate. _

  
  


Ben closes the window.

He usually checks his emails first thing in the morning. 

Today he didn’t, because he was distracted enough that he hasn’t even started to work yet. It’s ten already.

At nine, when he sits at his desk, she’s not there yet; but if it’s like any other day, he thinks to himself, she should get here within ten minutes, and then he’ll know. 

_ Know what? _

He just needs to see her face when she’s not crying. That’s all. 

His heart races again out of nowhere.

Ten minutes pass, and Rey still isn’t there.

Every five minutes, Ben feels the need to check over his shoulder if her desk is still unoccupied, even though he didn’t hear the elevator door open. At 9:25 she’s not there, and at 9:45 she’s still not there. Meanwhile, Ben stares at his excel document, his fingertips on his keyboard, unmoving. He’s lucky that no one pays attention to him. He can’t focus. 

Ten minutes later, after checking Rey’s desk again, and because he can’t go ask Deborah about her without bringing her tardiness to his manager’s attention, he pivots on his chair toward Sanchez. 

“Miguel?”

Sanchez doesn’t look up from his phone. “Yes.”

Ben takes a silent breath in.

“Do you happen to know why Rey hasn’t arrived yet? I--” He looks down, “I need her to… take a look… at something that…”

He’s always been a terrible liar. He doesn’t like lying, he doesn’t like that at all. Sanchez frowns.

“Rey? She’s here.”

Ben goes silent, and looks at her chair across the room. Her empty chair.

“You missed her,” Miguel explains. “She had to take a bus this morning so she was here early.”

“Oh. But she’s not at her desk?”

Sanchez finally turns to him. “Yeah, she’s in the basement.”

Ben tries as best he can to hide his surprise -or more importantly, his concern. “...the basement?”

“Yup. It’s technically where the IT department is supposed to be.”

“I know, but… she never works there.”

“Maybe she needed to for once. Do you think she actually decided to  _ work _ for a change?” Sanchez jokes. 

But Ben doesn’t smile. He turns his head to Rey’s empty desk again, then looks down at the floor, right between his feet. 

He imagines her many feet below, seated at a small desk in a poorly lit and ventilated office, in the middle of servers, maybe. He wouldn’t know, he’s never been there. 

So she’s here, in the building. She wasn’t late. 

Then everything is alright, he thinks. Everything can go back to normal now. 

Certainly nothing keeps him from checking his emails now. So that’s what he does -because  _ everything is back to normal.  _

When he opens his inbox, Beryl’s response is at the top. Rey’s email is right under it.

Now he’s trying to not open it again and read it a sixth time, because if he does he might read it a seventh time, then one more time, then once again, and he’s not here to do that. He’s here to work.

By lunchtime, he’s made no real progress. 

Reading that email five times was enough to memorize it, and when he’s not reciting it in his head, or thinking about yesterday’s drive, he can’t help but anticipate the moment she’ll come up from the basement to have her lunch with Warsi and Taylor.

But she doesn’t come up. 

From his desk, through the kitchen’s doorway, he watches Rey’s friends have lunch together without her. Things haven’t gone back to normal. 

For a minute, he still tries to stick to and focus on  _ his  _ own routine. He goes to the kitchen, to the fridge, methodically rolls up his sleeves to his elbows and brings his lunch box back to his desk.

There, his stomach protests, and he knows he won’t be able to take a single bite. 

His shyness was deemed charming when he was a boy. When he grew taller than his teachers, suddenly being soft-spoken was not as endearing as they had previously assured it was, and he was told he had to speak up. Oral exams were particularly excruciating. No matter the amount of work he would do for his exposés, nothing seemed to distract his professors from the fact that he had to  _ use his chest more _ when speaking. 

Men aren’t praised for being soft-spoken. People expect someone of his size to speak with a confident tone and volume but more often than not he just feels too much at once and fails to even produce a sound. 

Standing up, his lunchbox left untouched, Ben awkwardly clears his throat to get Sanchez’s attention. 

“I need to get something in my car,” he breathes, his skin prickling at the lie. 

Sanchez yawns at his screen. “Okay.”

“I forgot my thermos,” Ben adds, right when his eyes find his thermos, next to his monitor. “_Not that one_,” he stammers. “Another one. I have two thermos.”

“Okay, Solo, I don’t care.”

Ben is about to leave. “If someone’s looking for me, I’ll be back shortly.”

“Sure.” 

Things have not gone back to normal. Ben doesn’t usually do this. 

He doesn’t lie. He doesn’t let mornings go by without completing the tasks planned. Ever since Rey asked him out he’s been doing things he dislikes doing so much.  _ He went to a bar. _

And here he is now, taking the elevator down to the ground floor, swallowing with a dry mouth as he tightens then loosens his tie. He’s only wearing a shirt and a thin undershirt, he’s almost sweating like he’s back from a run. 

For a moment there, nothing stops him. He pushes the door to the staircase open, and with somewhat weak legs, he goes down the stairs, slowing down but not stopping, his breath shallow.

He doesn’t hesitate either when he gets to the second door, the one leading to the basement, even though he should be hesitating given that he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Once that door is pulled open, however, his feet come to an halt.

The only light allowing him to see anything, the shape of the hallway or the doorway underneath, is the green exit light fixed on the wall, all the way down the hallway on his left. There is no door there, leading to what he presumes is the office that was originally meant to be the IT department, and no light seems to come from inside. Now he feels like he can barely move.

But he does.

Anyone would announce themselves in a situation like this, but he physically can’t. Without trying to speak he knows he’s already lost his voice. Who knows, in fact, how he managed to end up standing in the doorway at all. 

His eyes need a few seconds to adjust to the darker room. He can barely make out the empty desks, the old, useless microsoft monitors and towers pushed in one corner and the servers on the opposite side.

At the other end of the room, far from him, two screens are lit up -the only source of light. 

A surprisingly large desk chair is turned to them, facing away from him.

All he sees of her is the shape of her left elbow on the arm rest, and under the chair, her feet in two oversized sneakers, slightly turned inwards.

He tries to will himself to move again. But he doesn’t walk in, and he doesn’t call her.

People just don’t bother their colleagues over nothing, especially when they’re essentially strangers. He’d have to actually have something to say, and he doesn’t know what to say. He didn’t prepare.

If he had even an ounce of the courage the average person has he would extend his hand and turn the lights on to at least see her face. 

He doesn’t have that courage.

As quietly as he came, he turns around, his heart somehow beating harder as he walks away, in the opposite direction in the hallway.

Once he’s passed the first door and closed it, he tries to take a deep breath in, but his chest stutters, and he only feels more out of breath, like he’s choking on disappointment.

He climbs a few steps then pauses and runs a hand over his face, huffing in the silent staircase. 

Because she’s standing a few steps above him and not making a sound, and that he’s looking down, Ben doesn’t see her right away. He jumps when he does.

A hand on his ribs, he exhales sharply. “Susmita... I didn’t see you.”

Warsi’s expression is as neutral as ever as she looks down at him, something that isn’t to make him less nervous.

“Hey, Benny, watcha doing here?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Just chillin’ in the staircase?”

He shuts his eyes, feeling his face heat up. “I mean I… I needed Jones’ help about something, but then I remembered... there’s an easy solution for it so I don’t need to bother her for that.”

He puts his foot on a step higher, to keep going, but Susmita stays right where she is.

“I don’t think you’d bother her much, she’s never busy.”

“Right,” he concedes, “still, it’s--”

“She’s not incompetent, but she’s not  _ efficient  _ is what I mean.”

“Uh huh-”

“IT people are used to stupid questions. I don’t think she would mind.”

“ _ It’s okay, I have the answer to my _ \--”

“Come with me,” she puts a hand on his shoulder, stepping closer, “we’ll ask her about your issue just in case.”

“No!” He exclaims despite himself, hopefully not loud enough to be heard by Rey through the walls. 

Warsi removes her hand from him, her face still carefully blank. 

“Susmita ---I’m embarrassed that I came all the way down here in the first place. There’s no need, but thank you, thank you so much for… your concern.”

A silence passes while Warsi gives him an uncomfortably long look. He’s about to thank her again in the hope that it’ll appease her -but she goes around him, to go down the rest of the stairs. “Alright, as you wish.” 

Ben waits until he hears the door close after her to sigh.

  
  
  


The light from the two monitors, in Rey’s face, deepens the dark around her. 

For a few hours, she can almost pretend like she’s alone in the entire world, which was exactly the point of coming here.

She imagines there was a time when BBox needed more than a single IT worker to get things going. Best not to think about when they’ll stop needing her too. 

The thought of losing her job doesn’t really preoccupy her in and of itself, but while she likes to claim otherwise, walking away from the only people she has in her life, even as she can’t call them  _ friends _ , isn’t an idea she likes to dwell on.

Yesterday evening, she didn’t drink. She made herself a broth, her face swollen and hot from all the crying, tired from walking; she sat at her kitchen table to eat, took a shower, and went to bed a bit before  _ eight _ . 

Her sleep is deep and uninterrupted. When she wakes up this morning and has to remember everything that happened yesterday, she only wishes she could go back to sleep for another couple of days. 

Not only does she have to get up, but she also has to hurry: a bus will stop a few streets away from her apartment in forty-five minutes, and she must take that one if she wants to be at the office on time.

At 7:15, she’s the first to arrive there. She knows what to do and she doesn’t wait another minute to do it. 

Words come easily when all she has to say is the truth; it takes her a total of five minutes to write her email to Solo. 

Writing to him is easy -however, the prospect of having him look at her, with pity or worry, nearly makes her ill, and she doesn’t think she’ll stand to look at him either. She’ll be an adult about this, she will, but not today; it’s too soon. 

Once again, she’s tempted take her car and leave, skip work for a day, or three, or a week -but it’s as if she knew deep down that if she only misses a single day she’ll never have the courage to come back to the office ever again. 

That’s when she remembers the basement.

The whole morning, her heart is in turn completely numb or suddenly clenching at the thought of what she could have done or had if she had been better. 

When she was a teen, adults around her wouldn’t shut up about her  _ wasted potential _ . Even working in IT, they’d say, was beneath her. 

She’s older now, and she should have  _ some of it  _ figured out, but it seems that when it comes to certain aspects of her life she’ll never be meant to have anything, whether it’s what she deserves or what’s beneath her. 

When she was a teenage girl she didn’t care about disappointing anyone. Growing up for her has meant consistently disappointing  _ herself  _ through the years.

“Jones!”

Rey freezes. 

She really hoped the three floors separating her from the rest of her colleagues were enough to dissuade them from coming here. 

She twists on her chair to look behind her. She can barely make out Warsi’s silhouette in the doorway.

The four flat panels of the ceiling flicker to life, and Rey has to squint. Warsi’s hand stays on the lightswitch while she seems to adjust her expectations to what she’s actually seeing.

Without windows, the place is rather grim for an office. Rey is sure her face must match the atmosphere enough.

“What.”

“What are you doing here,” Warsi walks to her, hands in the pockets of her long, green skirt.

“What do you think i’m doing.”

“I don’t know.”

“Working.”

Warsi comes to stand right next to her, looking at the screens. “Oh, are you? That’s a nice change.”

Given the pause, she must sense how different or serious the situation is, even though Rey’s certainly not trying to get more attention by staying silent at that.

“Why aren’t you upstairs?”

“I’m IT, and this is the IT department.”

“Ah.” Warsi leans against the desk next to hers. “Didn’t need to eat today?”

“I ate already,” Rey lies.

She glances up in time to see Warsi purse her lips.

An awkward silence follows during which Rey wonders how long Warsi is going to pretend she cares.

“You… wanna talk about it?”

Rey closes her eyes, the way she does sometimes when anxiety hits her out of nowhere. “Fuck no,” she tries to reply as dispassionately as before.

Warsi sighs. “To the point. ---You sure you ate? What d’you eat?”

Rey turns to her this time. “Actually, can you tell me something?”

Warsi leans forward a bit, her elbow on the tower between them. “What.”

“Where did your  _ hunch  _ come from?”

Rey can’t say she’s dying to know the answer, but it’s been one of the many things on her mind since yesterday after she walked home, away from Solo’s car.

Warsi quirks an eyebrow. “ _ Hunch _ ?”

“How were you  _ so sure _ that Solo wanted to date me? You said you had a  _ hunch  _ he would say yes.” 

She hopes she doesn’t sound too bitter or hurt at the mere mention of what Warsi must remember as a harmless bet; but a flash of pity crosses her colleague’s face, and Rey is now sure she didn’t manage to hide her true feelings behind that question.

“I had absolutely no reason to think he wanted to go out with you,” Warsi reveals, her tone very matter of fact for what feels to Rey like a stab in the chest. 

She leans back in her chair, trying hard to save face with a soft scoff. “I knew it,” she murmurs to herself, turning away.

“...I just knew  _ you  _ wanted to ask him out.”

Rey immediately turns back to face Warsi. Her mouth open but without a retort, she plainly shows her emotion this time. 

“We… we never had--- we never talked about--”

“No I know,” Warsi interrupts, her calm steady. “You never tell me anything. But I wasn’t wrong, was I?” 

Rey swallows, unable to give an honest answer -even to herself, apparently. 

“It was  _ very easy _ to get you to do it. Didn’t think you would backpedal, though. That I did  _ not  _ predict.”

Rey turns away for good this time, eyes on the screen, her hand back on the mouse. 

It’s a special kind of failure, a special kind of humiliation than to be told by someone else that you’ve fooled yourself. If there wasn’t any evidence that Warsi is right, Rey could maybe handle this conversation a bit better. As it is, she can’t look at her colleague in the eyes.

She’s not in the mood to talk, especially if it’s about anything related to Solo. Clearly, when it comes to everything that could have been, the less she knows, even about herself, the better. 

If she had been alone right now, she’d already be on the verge of tears -so she really needs Warsi to leave. 

Except that she can’t even have that. 

“I actually came down here because Deborah is asking for you.”

Rey represses a sharp sigh. “What for?”

“I don’t know.”

“She knows I’m here,” she whines, a tremor her voice at the mere thought of seeing Solo at his desk. She waves at the phone on her desk. “All she has to do is call.”

“Maybe she needs to talk to you in person, what’s the issue here? I don’t think she needs you there for long. It didn’t seem urgent; or important, for that matter.”

_ All the more reason,  _ Rey wants to say. 

She doesn’t say that, because she doesn’t want to make it more evident to Warsi why she doesn’t want to go upstairs -and she won’t further humiliate herself by directly admitting why either.

So she just wordlessly rolls back on her chair, and stands up, her chest tight. 

Warsi follows her out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [It's gonna be you and me / Gonna be everything you / You've ever dreamed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUkkaqSNduU)


	11. Green light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey babies, 
> 
> Brief recap of what happened in the story/last chapter: 
> 
> -Ben drives Rey home, admits she hurt him; she apologizes, crying.
> 
> -The next morning, Ben receives a formal apology through email from Rey. He finds out she went to work in the basement.
> 
> -Ben tries to go see Rey in the basement, but can’t overcome his shyness; taking the stairs, he briefly meets Warsi.
> 
> -Rey is called to Deborah’s office, forcing her to leave the basement and go upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Please shower with praise LadyofDragonstone, who made a fanart of the stapler scene (you know, the one Rey sits on?). She's the absolute best, and I love her.](https://force-sensitive-porg.tumblr.com/post/613787481390940160/did-any-of-you-used-my-stapler-by-mistake-the)
> 
> [Once you've done that, please shower with praise @Reykohi, who made this art, ALSO featuring the infamous stapler. I cannot thank you enough, I love it.](https://twitter.com/ao3animal/status/1244334786963025920)

Ben Solo is _ patient _; to a fault.

The 21st century is too fast-paced for people like him. He should have been a shoemaker, some time before the industrial revolution; that’s where he belongs. 

His colleagues all surely have an opinion about his situation in life; he’s over thirty and he’s never introduced or mentioned a girlfriend to any of them. No raise in years, some would argue because he’s never asked for it when he fairly deserves one. 

  
  


Ben doesn’t like to rush things, even tasks he’s done a thousand times; and he likes to complete them the way it’s supposed to be done, with the right tools. To relax, he’s watched hours of watercolor tutorials -and this despite that he’s never been anywhere near a paintbrush in his life. Few things are soothing to him like reading instructions. They lead the way, and with them, he’s sure to not miss any step; and if he doesn’t miss a step, he’s sure to arrive at destination. 

It’s doesn’t matter how long it takes. The comfort of knowing he’ll get there regardless, is enough to make any struggle tolerable. 

Life isn’t like that at all. He has no tool with him when it comes to people; there’s no tutorial, no course to take that can get him to acquire any actual competence on the subject. 

Taking the elevator back to the third floor, he checks his watch, his face hot with shame after his encounter with Warsi in the stairs.

This is why he should never act on impulse. This is why he shouldn’t improvise, he’s not build for that life.

He _ needs _to go back to his routine and never think of Rey, her email, or Milo’s birthday ever again. The sooner he’ll get back to work the better. What’s done is done and everything has been said. 

Back in the comforting familiarity of his desk chair, he lets out a small exhale, eyeing his lunch. 

Methodically, he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, his fingers a bit shakier than usual -but he’s back where he’s supposed to be, doing what he’s supposed to do. 

It’s 12:30, and he’ll eat even if he doesn’t want to -then, he’ll finally get back to work.

“Where’s your second thermos?” Sanchez asks from his desk, and Ben needs a second before his face heats up again.

“Couldn’t find it,” he murmurs, clicking his lunchbox open.

“Bummer.”

Ben knows it’ll take time, and _ so be it _. He’s felt alone and ashamed before, those are not emotions he’s unfamiliar with at all. He knows how to live with them; he’s lived with them for years. 

Today will feel awful. A hundred more days like this one, and he’ll be fine -and if a hundred isn’t enough, then a thousand. Time is all he has anyway, it’s a long river that flows steadily; and he knows how to sit in the grass and watch it pass him by.

Ben manages to reply to several emails, forty-five minutes later, when Taylor speaks from the kitchen doorway: ”Oh, Rey? Lunch?”

All morning, Ben has been obsessing over Rey’s absence at her desk, therefore he’s sure, at first, that his brain is artificially providing him what he wants to hear most; and so, even as his heart skips a bit, he expects to be disappointed as he pivots just so on his chair, to look above his shoulder; that he’s misheard.

He freezes on his chair as he watches Rey hurry across the room, slaloming between the desks to get to the hallway that leads to Deborah’s office. Warsi is not far behind, at first, but she stops to stay with Jordan -and Rey disappears in the hallway.

Ben turns back around. It’s certain now; Rey _ is _avoiding him. There’s no reason he could invent to justify her working there instead of here, and now, seeing how fast she crossed the room, and although he’d like nothing more than to be wrong, he knows that her decision to work there is about him. 

She didn’t even stop to talk to Jordan.

Did Warsi tell her she met him in the stairs? Is it why?

Ben covers his eyes.

Briefly, for his peace of mind, he considers finding Warsi later and directly ask her not to tell Rey about their encounter in the stairs, if she hasn’t yet. 

But if she asks him why, what will he say? 

He grabs a pencil, and holds it tight in his palm. Maybe asking Warsi to keep it a secret would actually _ prompt her _ to tell Rey? _ Maybe she’ll even say that he’s asked her not to tell? _He can’t think of anything worse. What is the best course of action? 

A voice tells him: _ no action _ is the best course of action, as always. 

Another tells him: _ do something for once; quit your job, leave and never come back. _

He can’t say how much time goes by until he hears a door close, on the other end of the hallway. From his desk, he can’t see anything, and he can hardly hear any footsteps on the carpet; but when he turns on his chair, Warsi is standing from her chair with a frown. 

When Rey hurries to the exit, at a subtly faster pace than earlier, Warsi pushes her chair back and follows her to the elevator.

Gone faster than she came, getting herself away from him. Even as it hardly surprises him, it hurts just as badly.

Sitting straight in his chair, his hands useless on his thighs, he fantasizes about having the courage to tell her to switch with him. Ben could work in the basement. She has actual friends here, he doesn’t. He’s not missing out on lunch with Warsi and Taylor, she is. 

The silly idea to send another mail to HR crosses his mind, a man in desperate need of a procedure to follow. How do people do in those situations? Beside talking to the person who doesn’t want to be near them. 

While he sits at his desk internally spiraling over questions that matter only to him, time passes and Warsi has returned at some point, because he sees her at her desk, back to work, and he can’t help but stare, trying to find on her face any clue as to what she talked about with Rey, and if they talked about him at all, or about yesterday -if she knows anything helpful about how Rey feels. Maybe Warsi tried to convince her colleague to come back to work with them, and what was Rey’s answer?

For an hour, then soon, two, he uses a few keys of his keyboard and his mouse for five minutes, then leans back with a silent exhale as he wonders if working in the basement could get Rey in trouble, for some reason; or, if that self-imposed change will eventually push her to quit from working in an office without windows. To quit, rather than having to work with him. 

His heart races at the thought, and he has to sit there and act like today is just like any other day.

Ben should have talked to her when he was downstairs, so close to do so. Why didn’t he? He _ knows _ why, but _ why _ ? _ Why didn’t he anyway? _

Wherever his eyes go, people look worried to him; _ concerned _. Warsi, Taylor, Sanchez. They all look like they know something he doesn’t. He’s self-aware enough to understand that it’s all in his head, that he simply can’t help projecting his own worry about Rey onto the others -still.

Warsi leans back in her chair, lost in thought, not typing anything, not making any calls, and that scares him. 

When he looks down at his watch, however, it makes sense; she usually gets up around three to go make herself a tea. 

For once today, things go as expected, and Ben is rewarded almost instantly with a confirmation. Warsi pushes her chair back with a sigh, and leaves her desk to go to the kitchen. Right on time.

And lightning strikes twice. 

Like this morning, when he decided to go to the basement without thinking it through, Ben finds himself standing up again before any plan forms in his mind. In no time, he finds himself standing in the kitchen doorway, his heart pounding.

If he can’t talk to Rey, he might be able to talk to Wari ...but Warsi isn’t alone. Betty is there with her, sitting at the round table by the wall. Warsi is at the counter, her whole set of spices in front of her: cinnamon sticks, cloves, cardamom, fennel; along with her black tea and her milk. She turns on the single electric hob they have. 

Betty briefly interrupts herself: “Hi Ben!” 

“Hello, Betty.” 

He looks over at Warsi -but she doesn’t turn to him, or say a word to acknowledge him. She would, because he’s never taken a single afternoon break since they’ve known each other, and she usually jumps on any opportunity she gets to tease him. This isn’t like her, and he feels himself sweat profusely just at that small change in behavior. 

_ What did they talk about with Rey? ...Did Rey cry again because of him? _

His heart clenches at the thought. 

Ben is dimly aware that he shouldn’t just stand there and stare, but he still does for an awkwardly long moment while Betty holds her one-way conversation, until he can finally move his legs to get closer to the counter.

Ben carefully grabs the kettle on Warsi’s left -and she still doesn’t acknowledge him. However, looking a bit more closely at her, it’s now painfully evident that she’s not listening to Betty. She’s preparing her tea, standing there but absent all the same -and_ that’s _certainly not to reassure him. 

Preparing his own tea should take less time, he thinks, and he hopes Betty will leave before he’s done drinking it. Right as he turns the kettle on, a minute later after filling it, Betty _ does _ leave, blessedly; and Warsi barely nods at her before she exits the room.

The kitchen is suddenly silent, save for the water boiling and the distant clatter of keyboards from the main room. 

The steady hiss and boiling eventually slow down to a stop, and he feels like a spotlight just stopped on him into the crowd, like everyone on earth is waiting for him to speak -all the while a small voice tells him not a single soul cares what he has to say. 

So, he opens a cupboard to grab a mug, his movements even slower than usual, overwhelmed by the mere idea of asking about Rey and having to make it sound _ casual _ , and the stress of having to ask _ Warsi _, of all people. 

She watches the spices boil in her small pot, everything the same to her; a tea at three, a skirt reaching the middle of her shins, a blue sweater and its round neckline, her black hair in a long braid along her back; a bored face.

“Susmita?”

“Yes, Benny?” She says softly, although she still doesn’t look at him. 

The kettle useless in his hand, he stops before thinking of pouring the water in his mug. 

“...Is Rey okay?”

There it is: what he wishes he’d have asked Rey. 

Ben realizes, too late, that this will probably give Warsi suspicions about their encounter in the stairs earlier, and he refrains from being any more straightforward by asking why Rey decided to work downstairs today.

Warsi’s brows go up as she finally looks up from her pot. There is no trace of amusement on her face. Warsi has always been able to school her expression into an unreadable mask, but right now, she looks… tired. 

She inhales deeply. “Yeah, she’s… She’s okay.” She removes the pot from the hob. “...Don’t worry about her.”

Even _ he _can clearly see she’d like the conversation to end there.

He’s been intentionally vague and as much as he _ needs _ to know all he can, he doesn’t know if he could handle the reality of actually hearing a third party judge the situation. He wonders how much Warsi knows; if she knows about the email he sent; if she knows about the one Rey sent him; or that the flowers he brought to Milo’s birthday were for Rey. 

Warsi pours her tea in her mug, prompting him to use the kettle in his hand and fill his own. He doesn’t even like black tea. 

The mug in his hand now, he steels himself for another question -and the possible answer Warsi will give.

“Have you talked to her?” 

“You know…” Warsi gives a small, defeated smile, shrugging, “...she’s not much of a talker. And frankly, there really isn’t much to say.” 

_ Why did he think this would help. _

The cold milk she pours into her tea rolls into clouds, seeming to hypnotize her, her voice monotonous. “Honestly, Benny? ...We kind of expected it.”

He tenses, his face warm.

Now he suspects that _she’s _being vague to get _him _to talk. Which part was “expected” is one thing he burns to know; that he would accept going out with Rey? 

That she would turn him down the way she did, that he’d be insecure to go on a date with her, the second time she asked? There is not a single incident that he’s not embarrassed to mention out loud. Yet, it’s something else that makes him want to hide, more than the rest. 

“...We?” 

Ben already knew that Taylor and Warsi were aware of at least some of it -but to have it confirmed to him is humiliating.

“Just Tran, Jordan and me.” 

He bows his head. 

Tran asked him recently if he’d be free for a barbecue at his place in a week, and Ben asked if Rey was going. He has to stand in front of Susmita as fresh shame rises in his cheeks, knowing she has a front row seat and _ knows _ why he’s blushing. 

She leans against the counter, “She’s not feeling great, but, overall ...I personally don’t think she _ cares _all that much.”

Thankfully Warsi doesn’t notice how he receives those words, seemingly too preoccupied herself. A pang in his chest has him wince. 

This is worse. Hearing a third party tell him that Rey doesn’t care is _ worse. _This should be a good time to end this exchange. 

“I’m glad that she’s better,” he manages to say. Warsi only takes a sip of her tea. 

Then the conversation takes a strange, casual tone, as if Warsi was trying to convince herself that this is no big deal. 

“Depending on how you look at it, I think it’s a good thing,” she nods to herself. “That might finally push her to look for different options.”

Ben takes a deep, quiet breath in. This is turning into his worst nightmare by the minute. 

The more she speaks, the less he can ask what she exactly mean, because he’s sure whatever answer she has for him would tear him apart. He dumbly nods with her, his shoulders sagging -his tea untouched.

“People can say what they want about her,” she goes on looking at the main room, absently moving the spoon in her mug, “but once you get to know her, you know that she deserves everything.”

Ben swallows. “You’re right.”

This is the most personal he’s been with anyone at the office ever -minus the drive home with Rey yesterday. He tries to react accordingly but barely manages to.

“I’m here to help her if she needs me. She knows that. She’ll be okay.”

Now _ those _ are the words he wanted, _ needed _to hear. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you, Susmita... Thank you for being there for her.”

Warsi purses her lips, squinting at him, seemingly confused. 

He realizes this was maybe a touch too solemn a tone from him. “Of course,” she says. “...Are you not drinking your tea?” 

Somewhat clumsily, he brings the mug to his lips in response -then _ tenses _immediately when he burns his tongue, quickly covering his mouth with a hand to muffle any sound.

Warsi watches the whole thing, but it’s like he’s not there, somehow. She looks too lost in thought. 

“Don’t say a word to anyone,” she says, “But I already told my mom.”

She gets closer to Ben as he frowns, his face burning anew, “She’ll try to talk to a cousin, Patrick? He’s in early thirties, has his own company. An all around great guy. The only family member I would introduce to her, to be honest.”

In a matter of seconds, Ben’s blood is pounding so hard in his ears he can barely hear Warsi over it; his fingers clench around the mug’s handle, to make sure he doesn’t drop it. 

Patrick. 

Her cousin. In his thirties. Patrick is not an accountant, he has his own company. Of what? Ben wants to know more than anything in the world but he won’t ask, because he might _ vomit _if he opens his mouth. Susmita is still talking. 

It doesn’t matter, he finds out, because he hasn’t missed the most important part, which is the end of her sentence.

“-she basically has her foot in the door already. There’s a solid chance he’ll hire her.”

He blinks. “Who?”

“My cousin. Patrick.”

“Hire who?”

Warsi looks up at him, pausing. “Rey,” she says cautiously, and she must not realize how shaken he is because she elaborates: “Things can go fast is what I mean.”

“W...why would he hire her?” He asks softly, his voice lost, mouth dry.

_ Now _she understands something’s off, he sees it happen in real time on her face. 

“What do you mean?” She asks, confused; then suggests: “She’s a good candidate?” 

“Is she quitting?” 

A long, painful silence follows. For once, Warsi doesn’t seem to be in control at all, something rare to witness that has panic rise more surely in his stomach. She’s at a loss for words, staring back at him. 

“Solo she got fired,” she simply says in the end. “What were you talking about?”

Two of Ben’s knuckles crack around the handle of his mug. While he doesn’t move a muscle, Warsi puts her own mug down, as if having her hands free will help her get control back over the conversation.

“ She got _fired? _ ... _ when _?” 

“At lunch. Deborah let her go,” she whispers now, quoting with her fingers in the air the _let her go_ part. “She has until the end of the week.” 

_ The end of the week. That’s in three days. _

“Alright,” he rasps, calmly putting his nearly full-to-the-brim mug in the sink.

“I assumed--” He hears Warsi tries, “...I don’t know why, I--” 

He wonders what it takes for her to look _ that _apologetic. Patients who are told they have stage four cancer must handle the diagnostic better than Ben is handling the news of Rey Jones losing her job. Warsi is now acting as if he’s the one who will be unemployed at the end of the week, a hand awkwardly resting on his arm.

Downsizing is an ugly process, he thinks. The horror of capitalism. There one day, gone the next. The whole company is collapsing, it’s been collapsing for a while. The talents of a perfectly good employee are going to waste. Who knows what repercussions this will have on someone like her _ , _ he thinks. A _ woman _working in a male dominated field.

But he can pretend all he wants that those are the worries at the forefront of his mind, that this is what is causing him to _ breathe weird _, but it’s not. 

The truth is, he’s quietly horrified, because he’ll soon stop seeing her every day. In fact, because she works in the basement now, he might never see her again. If a party is thrown to comfort her, like it was done for Diego six months ago, Ben has no friends here who would invite him, and even if he _ had _friends, people would make sure to leave him out of this one anyway because Rey wants nothing to do with him. 

Warsi’s voice pulls him out of it. “Benny you _ really _don’t have to worry, she’ll be fine, like I said--”

“Right.”

“--my mom is taking care of everything, I also--”

“_ Okay! _ ” He croak, and _ leaves _. 

Ben tries to walk back to his desk in a way that doesn’t show too much how desperate he is to _ run _, and he sits as calmly as he can, placing his forearms on each side of his keyboard, his hands flat.

“...Solo, are you okay?”

Without looking up, he takes a breath in.

“I’m alright, Miguel, please don’t ask me again.”

  
  


Miguel doesn’t ask again.

  
  


Rey has been staring at the screen for too long in the dark. Her eyes are dry, throbbing. 

She has a clean, functional bathroom right on the left at the end of the hallway. Several stalls. The only moment she got some natural light was at lunch -when she was called to Deborah’s office.

She rubs her eyes with a heavy sigh. 

_ Jesus fucking christ. _

Earlier when she takes the elevator down, back to the basement, Susmita, who managed to get inside before the doors closed, tells her that she’ll come find her at five before leaving the office, and that they’ll go get a drink together. Rey only gives her a noncommittal nod. Rey knows how to display indifference well when she’s hurting, and one day, she hopes she’ll feel as indifferent as she looks.

But when it’s finally five o’clock, the computer towers are humming, her chair squeaks weakly when she squirms. She finds herself waiting in the dark for Susmita to show up. 

Soon, it’s 5:15. Then 5:30. 

She stares at nothing, waiting to hear the second door open. But there’s no one. 

So Rey tries to ignore the distinctive pang in her chest, packs up her things, and leave.

When did she get so sensitive?

Being thirty and a failure in virtually every aspect of her life is one thing to live with; but now she also has to find a way to keep going with the prospect of aging five year, ten years, _ twenty _years knowing that’s all her life will ever be.

Walking out of the building, she squints like a real life Quasimodo at the natural light, her backpack on one shoulder, rubbing her sore neck. 

The parking lot is nearly empty, and she spots Solo’s car immediately -which is as unexpected as yesterday. Unlike yesterday, however, she doesn’t spare it another thought. She walks to her car. 

Should she bother coming to work tomorrow? Probably not. Will she come anyway?

Inside the car, Rey throws her bag in the backseat and pushes out a long, tired sigh. Working in the basement should have caused her to miss her colleagues, but claiming that would be dishonest. 

She spent so many of her waking hours with those people for more than a year and a half, and yet. She’ll walk away without truly knowing any of them. 

Anyway, she’s not thinking just about _ any of them _. 

She’s staring at the wall in front of her car, through her windshield, when something in her rearview mirror prompts her to look up. As if summoned, Solo leaves the building.

Rey’s hands ball into fists, and she looks away.

She’ll have to sit and wait for him to drive away, so they don’t have to exchange an awkward, painful glance from their respective cars as they exit the parking lot.

He’s not any different today than he is any other day. Looking at him just now, his briefcase in hand and his jacket over his wrist, walking peacefully across the parking lot, she would never guess he even _ remembers _she was crying in his car less than 24 hours ago. 

She closes her eyes for a long moment, allowing shame to sit in her chest as she thinks about that ride home. With a bit of effort, and focus, maybe she'll manage not to cry for so long about it tonight; maybe she can manage not to cry right now. She presses the heel of her palms into her eyes, and blinks them open.

Something moves in the opposite side view mirror.

Solo is already so close to the side of her car, all she sees reflected in the small mirror is a portion of his waist, his shirt tucked in, and his briefcase held by his hip. His hand reaches for the door handle of the front passenger side. The door opens.

Rey sits up, alert, turned to Solo as he _ gets in the car _, folding himself in the seat next to hers, getting his legs inside before slamming the door shut. He’s sitting right there, fist clenched around his jacket over his lap, less than a foot away, the top of his head a few inches shy of touching the roof of the car; he brought the faint smell of his perfume with him.

Rey freezes, not daring to move, her heart pounding. _Ben Solo is in her car. _

Distantly, she thinks about the state of her car; the crumpled flyers on the floor, under his large shoes; the gum wrappers in the cup holder; the fingerprints on the rearview mirror -but he’s clearly not paying attention to any of that. Seeming like he’s stopped breathing, not quite meeting her eyes, his face turns paler than she’s ever seen it.

“I…” is the single syllable that falls from his lips, and Rey holds her breath too, trying to make sure she doesn’t miss the rest.

But the rest doesn’t come. She tracks the movements of his lips as he attempts to speak but only mouths half a word, falling silent; a bright pink suddenly blooming on his neck. 

“Sorry, I…” He finally says. His hand pulls on door handle, and he pushes it open. Solo gets out the car. 

Before closing the door, he bends down to apologize, his face red, still avoiding her eyes: “Wrong car.” 

The door slams shut. 

Stunned, numb and truly awake at the same time, Rey blinks. “_ No _ ,” she hears herself say, horrified, _ robbed _. 

She gets out of the car swiftly. 

“Solo? _ Solo _!” She strides to him, hands shaking, determined to not let him leave without an explanation. 

Unexpectedly, Solo slows down on the way to his car, and turns around. Still, he can’t quite face her, as if caught but ready to escape the second he can, his briefcase held to his stomach to shield himself.

So Rey does get closer, but not too close -the way she would dealing with a large, six-foot-two fawn.

“Hey…”

He doesn’t utter a sound.

With forced nonchalance, her throat getting a bit too tight to speak but trying anyway, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible and pretend as if this is just another random interaction between two colleagues, Rey clears it with a tentative shrug. “Did you want to say something to me...?”

Solo gives her a small shake of his head. 

“Nothing, nothing important.” 

His face is now entirely red, and he looks like he’s trying to catch his breath from having walked a few feet.

Rey swallows, her voice small. “You can tell me things that aren’t important. I don’t mind.”

Solo has never looked as pained as now, his hand fumbling with the noose of his tie.

“I just, I have---“ he starts, his eyes down.

Rey goes very still and quiet.

“--I have…” He briefly dares to look at her face, but lowers his eyes right back. “...I have trouble login in… into the intranet,” he finally says -his words barely above a whisper. 

Rey’s shoulders sag slowly. 

She’s not hiding it well, how much it hurts her hearing that, her eyes maybe a bit too shiny.

Yet she still nods then, dumbly, resigned. “I’ll look into it.”

Then, they stand there, alone, while the sky turns pink. He doesn’t leave, doesn’t thank her, doesn’t say goodbye. 

“Did you want to tell me something else?” _She asks again_.

Her chest _hurts_ from giving him yet another opportunity to break her heart a bit more. She could just leave and preserve a bit of her dignity.

But the silence stretches, and they stay there.

With the reddest face she’s ever seen, Solo eventually breathes a defeated “_ ... _no”. He bows his head a bit; as if trying to recover from the most intense effort.

And she could nearly flinch hearing that word. Yet Rey still doesn’t move, however hurt she is. 

_ Because Ben Solo still isn’t leaving _. 

He’s not making a single move toward his Nissan, or saying goodbye -so she stands a moment there, waiting for it to happen. And it doesn’t.

Rey’s brow softens. Slowly, her spine and her shoulders become solid again. It’s quiet in the parking lot, and she doesn’t need anything else to be said. _Fuck it._

She turns around, and walks to her car. 

  
On her way there, she glances at him. Solo stayed right where she left him, his eyes down. 

She opens her door, and he doesn’t react when she slams it ten seconds later. The sound, after that, of her cotton tennis shoes shuffling on the asphalt, is what prompt him to look up. The double _ beep, _ when she locks her car, has him go completely still. 

Solo watches her return; but she passes him, her face numb but doing it anyway.

When she reaches his Nissan, she goes around it to the passenger side, puts her hand on the handle, then looks over at him once more.

His eyes round, holding on to his briefcase, he’s watching her, without making a move to stop her.

So she pulls on the handle; and because she finds it open, she climbs inside.

Only when Rey leans back in Solo’s seat does she feel a first rush of adrenaline, and she inhales deeply, the smell of mint filling her chest. She slams the door shut. 

Willing her heart to slow down, she eyes the pine-tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. Then she looks ahead, spine straight ---and puts her seatbelt on. 

Several long seconds pass while she fights hard against her need to turn around and see for herself what he’s doing, through the back window. The car muffles any sound coming from outside, and time stretches viciously as she waits, hands gripping her thighs through her skirt.

Right when she thinks _ it’s a bad idea _ and she should leave, the door on the driver’s side opens. For a second, her heart drops as she fears he’ll bend down and ask her to _ leave the car, now. _But no. 

Without a glance at her, Solo gets behind the wheel, the car gently rocking with his weight. She stays perfectly immobile, as if hiding -but even if he's not looking at her, she's in plain sight. 

He carefully leans toward her to put his briefcase behind her seat, _ without question _, proceeding exactly as yesterday; as if this had been his routine for years, to drive her after work. 

Yet this is _ not _routine; details she can observe from up close now that he’s here tell her that he’s painfully aware of that: the fine sheen of sweat on his temples and his neck, curling the end of his hair; the bright pink of his cheekbones and his ears; the tremor bothering his large hand when he pokes the igniter two times before successfully inserting the key. 

Solo starts the car, her presence in it unchallenged. Her hands slowly flatten on her thighs. She feels lighter, her chest slowly rising and falling.

He twists just so to look through the rear window, a hand behind her headrest as they back out of the parking spot. About to turn the car, he stops himself, and Rey watches him fumble a bit to put his seatbelt on. He clenches his fist hard before resting his trembling fingers on the wheel, and Rey tries to feel guilty for feeling the urge to smile. 

She’ll have to fight that urge harder.

Driving in direction to the exit, they go slower than she’s ever seen a car go, slower than time on a Sunday -as if Solo was smuggling merchandise he’s not supposed to have in his car out of this parking lot.

As they’re about to reach the gate, before they get on the road, Rey’s heart is pounding when she decides to speak and assure they’re on the same page and that he’s not driving her home. Her voice doesn’t seem to come from her for how soft and collected she sounds.

“Your place.” Not a question. Not even a sentence.

“...yes, okay, thank you,” he murmurs and immediately pushes his turn signal down to go left. 

On the road, she watches him from the corner of her eye, his throat working as he swallows. He’s driving at a reasonable speed now, thankfully, and not any slower than traffic. They do nearly run through a red light not five minutes later, but he brakes abruptly just in time, sending her head forward as the seatbelt tightens sharply across her chest. 

“_ Sorry _,” he chokes out. 

Rey pushes a strand of hair away from her face, unperturbed. “It’s okay.”

The car gently rumbles as they’re waiting for the light to turn green, and although she speaks low again, composed somehow, her voice is clear in the car.

“If you’re not comfortable with gossips, we should try to arrive at work before everybody else tomorrow.” 

To make sure there’ll be no room for misunderstandings this time.

Solo nods with a short exhale and a furious blush, his eyes anxiously fixed on the road. “Good, yes, great idea. _ Thank you _,” he murmurs again.

Rey leans back.

The light turns green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [One more time we're gonna celebrate](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6RTF4OPzf8)
> 
> Thank you so much for all your comments, they mean more to me than I can say.


	12. An open cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very, very brief recap: Ben accidentally learn through Susmita that Rey has been fired, which leads him to make a move. As a result, Rey gets in his car to go to his place with him.
> 
> You guess it, this chapter was way too long, so I cut it in half. The second half only needs editing, so it’ll be posted soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a bit going through hell right now, but some people are helping me through it, and that includes the readers of this fic. Your comments give me life.
> 
> Please shower with praise and love:[-Meeda, who made this already iconic art. It’s them, your honor. This is exactly them. Thank you so much for this, I love it so much it’s insane.](https://twitter.com/MeedaWrites/status/1248612357388959745)
> 
> [-Selunchen (@selunchen), who fucking embroidered “Wrong car”, I mean is this not the best gift ever? Is it not? Like holy shit you guys. She raised the bar.](https://twitter.com/ao3animal/status/1253729224730513410)
> 
> Please let them both know they’re the absolute best. They really are.

Rey doesn’t know the exact route to the Crespo factory. In all the years she’s lived here, she’s rarely been south, and that’s where they’re headed. But she’s not paying attention to the road anyway. 

Solo hasn’t looked back at her since the beginning of the drive, but it’s evident by the blush of his neck against his white collar that he’s hyper aware of her eyes on him.

His spine straight, his eyes fixed the road, driving smoothly from one lane to another, one could easily believe he’s focused and in control.

Roughly twenty minutes after they left, Solo puts the turning signal, slows down and enters the parking lot of a closed dental clinic. There, he repositions the car to go back the way they come from. 

Rey pushes her heels into the floor, a flash of anxiety coursing through her, but she sits there, finding not enough courage in her to ask what’s happening. No need to, it turns out. 

Waiting for the road to clear up to cross it, leaning forward with both hands on the wheel, and without directly looking at her, Solo explains: “I missed the exit."

She lets out a silent sigh. Her lips twitch, but she refrains from making any comment. 

“Sorry,” he whispers.

They’re back on the road driving in the opposite direction a moment later, the sun now facing them. 

But Rey finds she can't help it. “Do you remember where you live?”

“Yes,” the sweetheart replies with absolute candor, “I do.”

“Alright.”

The whole drive, Solo has been trying to grip the steering wheel _ the right way, _without success. He adjusts his hands just so, again and again. After taking the right exit this time, he surprises her by attempting to speak. 

“There is a restaurant, right on the--” he starts, maybe clinging to what he knows to be the typical structure of a date, or to what _ their _date would have been like, if they hadn’t been to Milo’s birthday instead -but she cuts him off, too impatient herself to even pretend she’ll entertain the idea.

“No thank you.”

“--Okay, sorry,” he breathes, his hands gripping the wheel tight. 

“Apology accepted.” 

She looks at him for a minute, but not at his face. In the position he’s in, with barely enough room to comfortably use his legs while driving, Solo’s grey slacks strain over his thighs.

She catches a glance from him, and she suddenly wants to make sure he knows.

“I’m looking at your thighs, is that okay?” She casually asks, her voice soft.

The vinyl of the steering wheel creaks in his grip again. A faint _ yes, it’s okay _escapes his lips. 

“You’re sure?”

He nods once, mute.

“You would tell me if you had an issue with it.”

“_ Yes _.”

“Alright,” she says, satisfied, adding for the pleasure of seeing his blush grow darker: “I’ll resume.”

And she does. She contemplates resting a hand on the closest one, dreaming about how dainty it’d look there, theorizing on how warm, how firm it is. However because she wants to get to Solo’s place alive and not cause a multiple car accident, she doesn’t touch him and squeezes her own thigh instead.

“They’re really nice,” she hears herself review shyly. She’s not sure she understands what Solo says, but she thinks it’s “_ thank you, you too _”, or something else that isn’t quite making sense, his emotion obviously conveyed very clearly regardless.

They park near what might be one of the three highest towers in the city, counting tens and tens of apartments with cheap rents, and a view on the industrial zone, a construction site, and the factory nearby. A few bushes here and there are meant to make up for a landscape of tar and concrete. The sun at this hour, at least, turn some of the grey into a soft orange.

Solo turns off the engine, the car going silent. “We’re here,” he unnecessarily informs her, before sitting there, the key still in the igniter. 

The terrifying idea that he’s having second thoughts crosses her mind, and she pulls on the hem of her skirt, wondering if she went too far. 

“You live in a parking lot?” She asks, trying to be playful but only sounding insecure.

“No,” he reassures her, not detecting the bad humor once more. “I live in an apartment, on the fifteenth floor.”

To Rey’s great relief, Solo gets out of the car.

Following him to the building, she watches his shoulders move with the awkward rhythm of his steps. Solo walks as if his feet were too big to walk with. His jacket and his briefcase in one hand, he holds the door open -his eyes averted from hers. 

Children are playing several floors above, the echo of their squealing bouncing off the walls in the staircase. She should be careful about what she says, and she surely has no business being so bold, but the prey is pure, and the sin too tempting, and while they're waiting for the elevator, she doesn't resist.

"Solo?" Brave, he dares to look at her this time. "Are you single?"

His eyes widen. The panic she sees there as he's most probably already wondering if this mean there's a chance _she _isn't, makes it worth it, but Rey also genuinely feels bad for it."Yes," he says with a blush. "Yes, I am."

"Oh good." She turns and keeps her eyes fixed on the elevator, trying to correctly predict how long Solo will wait before returning the question, or if he'll even find the courage to ask her at all. 

She underestimates him, because he asks her before the elevator doors open. 

"...Are you?" 

"Am I what?" She blinks, hoping to mirror his innocence. 

The word is pushed out, naked and vulnerable. "...single?"

"Why do you ask?" She toys with him for a few more seconds, feeling a strange need to deliver the lines that would have been her father's when she was a teen if he had been around. "What are your intentions with me?"

But the distress on Solo's face is too much, and when the elevator is there, she breaks character, allowing relief to wash over him. "Yes, Solo," she clears her throat, then flatly declares: "I'm a strong single woman."

The silence returns between them when doors trap them inside together, Solo standing at a polite distance.

It’s impossible to ignore how large his frame is in such a small space, just like Rey couldn’t escape it already when they were together in the copy room.

She stares, unashamed, and watches his chest slowly rise and fall under the white shirt while he pretends she’s not, a dizzying warmth building in her core. 

“Do you work out?”

Solo tries to straighten his back fully, but doesn’t quite manage. “I do,” he starts, quiet -then, as if reciting the words of his High School counselor: “...To help manage my anxiety.” 

“Does it work?”

“No.”

They might be three feets apart at the most. If Rey leaned closer_ , _she could let the tip of her nose touch the center of his chest, and take a long, deep breath in. She doesn’t, because she doesn’t want him to call the cops. 

His chest is not moving, she realizes a second later; he’s holding his breath. When she looks up, her voice is a bit too husky for someone who’s just standing and doing nothing else. 

“I have my own ways to help with anxiety.” 

He finds the courage to look back, replying with all the innocence of a young girl: “A workout routine?”

“...Sure,” she dead-pans, unblinking.

In the long hallway to his door, Solo searches for his keys. Once in front of it, he fiddles with them and almost drops them, catching them in time; then immediately drops them again.

They land hard on the floor, and before he can crouch to pick them up, _ she _does, swiftly stealing them. She calmly selects what looks like the right key -the biggest one- to open the door herself. “Thank you,” he breathes. 

Nothing important happens; Rey only takes her first step inside Solo’s apartment. Yet, she immediately feels something shift inside her, that she can’t quite place or name.

The smell of black soap, and faintly, the smell of the wax responsible adults use to care for their wooden furniture, are what Rey notices first. 

Nothing is out of place, is the second most evident thing; the bookcase, the dresser, the coffee table and the few plants are tastefully placed and arranged in the room. 

The silence in the apartment is what strikes her last, only met with muffled sounds of life from behind the walls: a mix of T.V., dishes and children squealing again.

Laid bare in the last rays of the sun entering through the bay window, left open: a sane, balanced, reasonable life. 

A geranium, flowers bright and orange, grows near a reasonably sized couch, with two pillows on each side of it matching its mint green color. She thinks about her miniature cactus on her bathroom sink. Then her eyes stops on a beautiful climber plant, near the bay window. 

There’s a gentle tug on the strap of her backpack; she lets Solo pull it off her shoulder with a bit of embarrassment. Somehow it takes for Solo to put his hands on it for her to realize she should really buy a new one. She weakly smoothes out the front of her blouse and her skirt.

From behind the couch, where she stands, she gets a clear view of the big letters of the Crespo factory, in red and green; she looks at them through a balcony net, meant to prevent any fall; and now she’s thinking about her father’s hair. She would pull on them a lot when she was small to try to get his attention.

“Do you… would you like a--” Solo tries -an again, she cuts him off.

“No thank you.”

No T.V., but an old yet high quality hifi system against the wall, one from the early 2000’s, maybe. Like his car, an old model but well taken care of. Not even a bit of dust on it.

Her foot meets a supple matter when she steps forward, and she looks down -finding the softest looking rug. 

“Should I take my shoes off?” She asks, now noting that Solo’s floor is cleaner than her kitchen counter. 

She turns to look back at him, and sure enough, Solo’s standing in his socks, his shoes neatly placed by the door. Yet, he tells her, timid: “However you prefer.”

Without untying them, she removes her shoes with her feet, then bends to pick them up, her old socks not as white as she’d like them to be in this moment. 

Solo is about to take them from her hand, she presumes, when she asks, on the exact same tone: “Should I take my underwear off?”

He stops right in his track, his shock apparent. Worse, her bravado is somehow gone in a blink, and she feels herself become really small.

“It’s a joke. I’m just joking,” she backpedals. 

“That’s funny,” he chokes out, blood drained from his face, trying to reassure her.

She bows her head and pads to the door to place her shoes there herself; next to his. Her pair, however, doesn’t quite fit into the remaining space by the dresser.

“I…” She means to ask him for his strongest alcohol, but words _come out weird_ when she turns to face him. “I have plants,” she lies with way too much conviction.

The exact moment she says it, the weight of it is too much to bear for some reason, and words spill out of her again right as Solo is about to speak.

“I… I don’t have plants. I don’t have them. Anymore.”

Solo lets out a small _ oh _, nodding hesitantly. “How come?”

“I threw them away," is all she finds to say.

He's confused, she can tell, but he’s trying to not show it, polite as ever. “They had diseases?” He asks, giving her a decent explanation on a silver platter.

Too scared he’ll ask her what diseases her imaginary plants had if she goes with it, however, Rey avoids his eyes. “No. I didn’t like them.”

“_ ... _ Oh _ .” _

She passes him, trying her best to seem collected, her face burning.

Facing the hifi system, her eyes find the CDs on the shelf above it. She would have thought Solo’s tastes in music would distract her from how tight her stomach feels, but not really, because she just stares at the row of CDs without really looking. 

One of them isn’t neatly put away with the others; it’s a yellow album cover with red lettering and a woman on a cross.

She turns to him. Solo is standing stiffly on the other side of the couch. 

“...You listen to Kate Bush?”

She doesn’t know why she feels so nervous speaking again, but it’s as if _ that’s _the question among every question in the universe that Solo was fearing the most. 

He doesn’t stall, admitting defeat with a quiet voice. “My pet bird does.”

Rey blinks twice. “Your?”

“Pet bird,” he repeats, looking up behind her, before he lowers his eyes, his hands clenching into fists.

Rey looks up. The books on the higher shelf of his bookcase are all she sees, before she catches a very subtle movement just above. She stills when she sees it.

A lovebird, no bigger than a small lemon, green and pinkish; it peers down at her, its head cocked to the side. Appraising her.

Rey turns back to Solo, who now doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself.

“Solo there’s no shame in listening to Kate Bush, she’s a great artist.”

“I, I wasn’t-- I’m not--” He stammers, apparently _ needing _ to clarify that he would never insult the songwriter. “ _ She is _, I--”

“How did you find out your pet bird was a fan?”

“My neighbor did,” he explains softly, “the bird was hers. She’d play Wuthering Heights to calm it down.” He shifts his weight on his feet, not taking a step closer, but seemingly wanting to. “Her other birds were rejecting it.”

Rey realizes then that the climber plant in the corner near the bay window is in fact hiding a cage, with a nice dome under the leaves. 

The lovebird is still watching her closely with very slow, minute movements of his eyes and head. She decides it’s best if Solo is the one doing the talking from now on. “You took it in, no questions asked?” 

“It was supposed to be temporary.” Lower, as if to himself, he adds: “The neighbor moved away, and she never picked up her phone."

Solo stops, it seems purely out of habit of not speaking any longer than a few seconds at a time, she thinks; but then the pause is so long, that she’s sure she fucked up again -until, closer to her, he resumes. 

“For a long time, it’d spend every day by itself, in its cage, and it had grown lonely. It was self-harming, and missing half of its feathers. When I’d be home... it’d be really loud all the time. It would _ scream _and bite my hands. It needed my constant attention.”

Rey sees its tail before he mentions it -a second lovebird, not far behind the other on the bookcase. 

“So, I did some research, and… I bought a second bird." He sounds embarrassed, as if this was the equivalent to admitting defeat, as a bird owner. "...Then I potty trained them, so they could leave their cage.”

A part of her is irritated at hearing it all, but she can't pinpoint why, her throat tightening without warning.

She asks with a small voice: “Do you even like lovebirds?”

Solo takes his time to answer, as if trying to be delicate and not insult the specie. “I like the two that I have,” he finally says, prudent. 

Rey’s eyes drift to the balcony, to the net. She looks back at the shelf just in time to see Solo reach up and remove the first bird. A sight to behold.

Transfixed, she watches him delicately close his hand around it. With large, heavy hands that could punch a man dead, he maneuvers the bird with more care than she believed was humanly possible, and her chest grows tight. 

One after the other, he places them in their cage, hiding them behind the leaves -the animals happy to be moved without so much as a chirp.

After the birds are safely inside, Solo seems suddenly apprehensive, nervous, his brow creased with doubt -and Rey feels herself slowly shrink away, her arms tensing at her sides.

She wants to say something, _ anything _to prevent whatever is about to happen from happening, her face already warm with humiliation and hurt as she imagines the worst -but Solo speaks first, although not to say what she expected. 

It doesn’t reassure her, because it feels like a trick question; and the way he asks it makes it sound like this is the most important matter in the world to him.

“Do you like working in IT?” 

Cautious, her voice as soft as his, she deflects: “Do you like working as an accountant?”

For a moment he appears to try to form a nuanced answer. In the end, he just plainly says: “No, I do because I have to.”

Wary, but trying to sound nonchalant, she clears her throat: “Same thing.” This feels a lot like she’s in a standoff except she doesn’t know against what or who.

Fear rises in her chest when he clenches his fist hard, his voice uncertain. “I could talk to Deborah. We could have a talk with her.”

Rey swallows thickly. “What for?”

“It might be for nothing but we can try. To change her mind. If it’s budget restrictions, I could try to find something---”

“Change her mind?” She frowns. “About what?”

Solo looks like he’s pained to even say the words. “---About her decision to fire you.”

Rey leans back, her mouth opening without a sound. 

This is _ not _where she thought this was going. 

“_ Fire me? _” She blinks rapidly. “I… She told you she was firing me? When? When did she tell you that?”

Solo stops moving completely, staring at her -the way people do when they realize they’ve said something they shouldn’t have, which is just what she doesn’t need right now.

She stammers, a bit shaken. “When will she inform _ me _ of that decision _ , _ do you know? Is there a reason she told _ you _? ” 

“She didn’t tell me,” Solo breathes, visibly distraught by her reaction, “Susmita did.”

Rey’s mouth opens in outrage this time, although she tries to stay reasonable. “_ Susmita _...? Why would Deborah tell Warsi, that’s not how--”

“Susmita said you were convoked in Deborah’s office at noon, and that _ she fired you _, in person--”

“_ What _ !” Rey squints in disbelief, “How in the? No she _ didn’t--- _” 

Right then, she stops mid-sentence, staring at Solo. A quiet _ oh _falls from her lips, and her shoulders drop. 

Solo is still looking at her, confused, and Rey has to hide her face in her hands for a second. She mumbles into them, mortified. 

“Solo, I’m not fired. I wasn’t fired today.”

“You’re… You weren’t?”

She shakes her head, her shame doubling when she says the words out loud. “Warsi lied to you.” 

She can’t quite look at him for a moment, waiting, but when nothing comes she looks up, ready to apologize. However Solo clearly isn’t expecting an apology.

A brief, breathless laugh escapes him, and he covers his mouth, his eyes shiny -the picture of a young bride saying _ I do. _

“Deborah didn’t fire you today?” He quietly asks again for confirmation, as if unable to believe his luck.

Recovering fast at his reaction, his emotion turning everything upside down, Rey tugs on the sleeves of her blouse, awkward. “No. No, she didn’t.” 

She’s never seen Ben Solo smile before. This is the very first time, and she’s not sure her heart can take it. He slowly nods. “...That’s so great.”

Rey’s chest is light, so light now. She feels a shy, confused smile tug at her own lips. 

He loosens his tie a bit, his eyes shining still, looking like he’s trying to come down from a high. “I feel so... relieved.” He adds, gracious: “I must have misunderstood.”

“No, she intentionally lied to you. I’m sorry she did.” 

“I’m not,” he says, as if to himself. It's easily the most confident she’s ever seen him be about anything.

“...Were you worried?”

Such a plain, simple question -yet her heart is in her throat as soon as the words leave her mouth. 

“Yes,” he says just as painly, without hesitation. 

He doesn’t look embarrassed by this admission. Not one bit.

_Yes_ can sound like a gun firing up, Rey finds out, and she feels like running. Not running away, _ running -_her heart beating as fast as if she was sprinting, eyes fixed on Solo's face.

“I made some mint tea, yesterday,” he offers, unsure, trying to be a proper host again. “Or… I have a bottle of wheat beer left, if you prefer.”

She calmly observes him, and she can already feel him wondering if he’s said something wrong the longer she stays quiet. She doesn’t mean to make him sweat -at least, not this way. 

“Are you anxious right now?”

It’s silent all around them, except for a very distant siren coming through the bay window opening, and the fluttering of wings inside the cage. 

“No, I’m okay, thank you." She looks down at his hands right when he forces himself to unclench his fists. “Are you?” He asks, the fool. 

She doesn’t miss the chance. 

“Yes, very.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Push me / And then just touch me / Till I can get my / Satisfaction](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sWxaY2p1Qn4)
> 
> [Susmita, when Ben Solo leaves the kitchen thinking Rey from IT has been fired](https://www.reactiongifs.com/r/2013/09/evil-smile.gif)


	13. Pastime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ THIS:  
There’s one chapter left (yes, I updated the chapter count AGAIN), and I’ll post it in a few hours at the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ THIS:  
There’s one chapter left (yes, I updated the chapter count AGAIN), and I’ll post it in a few hours at the most.
> 
> [Please check out the gorgeous fanarts PunchPea made for the fic, there are several of them, each one of impeccable taste and representing an object from the fic (serving as a symbol of Ben and Rey’s interactions/relationship). Please let her know how talented she is, I’m crazy about her art.](https://twitter.com/PeasDesign/status/1259208980070633478)
> 
> ...Solo just asked Rey if she was anxious, and she replied: "Very."
> 
> Let's go gurls.

On the other side of the living-room wall, Solo’s neighbor turns the volume of the T.V. a bit higher. The bay window is open, but it’s quiet outside. Everything is standing still.

Solo, a gazelle in the savannah, hasn’t heard anything move in the bushes. He’s imprudent, his eyes only on the bait. 

Rey’s eyes, meanwhile, aren’t leaving him_ . _

“_ Very _?” He repeats, worried, no doubt wondering if he’s the cause of the anxiety she claims to be feeling. She gives him a tiny nod to confirm. 

Something’s simmering on low heat inside her; it is not anger, and it’s not fear either.

“Oh…” Solo doesn’t ask her why she feels that way, surely not impatient to find out.

_ Rey _is the one getting impatient; she won’t spend hours building up to it. “Let me think of a solution.”

There’s no need for subtlety, with someone like Solo. He’s too easily overwhelmed, and he misses about every social cues anytime he is. 

She takes _ one _step toward him, a small one, her feet on the rug again. “Would you mind lending me a helping hand?”

He frowns with concern, probably imagining this is about some issue at work, something related to the conversation they just had, when he says _ yes _ \---exactly right as she says: “...on my chest.” 

Solo stills, his eyebrows shoot up. It’s too late though, she thinks. She’s a good hunter. 

He’s clearly heard her right, but he still whispers, his voice gone: “Sorry?” 

“I said,” she pushes through to miraculously say it all in one go, “would you lend me a hand, to put on my chest? I need you to check my heart rate.”

Blood instantly rushes to Solo’s face. He’s not fooled. 

Good. 

He tries to speak, and he does mouth something -but no sound comes out of him.

“Do you need to sit down?” She asks cutely, laying her second trap. 

“I’m okay,” Solo assures her, stepping back. 

But his heel bumps lightly against the couch, and it’s enough to make him lose his balance and fall on his ass; all as if a lasso had tightened around his ankle and Rey had tugged on the rope, watching intently. 

He doesn’t fight it and stays where he is with a trembling sigh, leaning on the armrest. Rey lets him take a breath, but she won’t fiddle about either. 

She’s in his line of sight when she adjusts her skirt, folding the hem so it ends up right above her knee, yet Solo doesn’t catch on the intention. 

The whole couch is free for her to sit anywhere on it, of course, but she still asks: “Do you mind if I sit down too? I’m feeling a bit dizzy.”

“Not at all,” Solo murmurs with a quick glance at all the space on his left, his hand gripping his knee.

When she puts her hand on his shoulder, it’s a surprise, and Solo leans back slightly to look up at her, as if she was merely trying to get his attention.

His shoulder tenses under her palm when she braces herself on it, then twists at the waist and bends her knees, carefully sitting sideways, right on his lap, a warmth spreading in her thighs as she lets her side soften against his torso.

Despite her confidence, her heart suddenly doubles its pace, alarmed, and she blinks a bit when she finds herself staring right at the side of Solo’s face, now inches from hers. 

He’s close enough for her to catch the faint smell of sweat from his temple; close enough that she can hear his breath stutter, and _ feel _his rib cage move right against hers.

He grips the armrest, but despite his clear emotion, Solo receives her without the smallest objection -even as he _ must _hear her inhale the smell of his perfume, no matter how quiet she tries to be. 

“Thank you,” she sighs. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, a man trained by his birds to repeat praises.

She lets herself melt over his solid weight, her arm gingerly resting around his neck, her thighs pressed together. As softly as she can, she asks:

“Am I too heavy?”

His ribs not moving for a second, he mouths a mute _ no _.

The large, beast of a hand Solo used to hold the bird earlier is right there on the armrest, now balled into a fist.

Her eyes don’t leave it as she loosens one, two, three buttons down her chest with skilled fingers, stopping at her middle -before she fishes for the front fastening of her bra. 

It’s an old, ugly bra, that one, discolored and shapeless, a bra she never would have worn under any circumstances if she had known she would show it to anyone today. _ But it opens in the front _, so she doesn’t really care at the moment. 

Solo doesn’t seem to care about that either. He’s deliberately _ not _ watching, his chest barely moving. 

Finally, she withdraws her hand -leaving the door open.

A child shrieks on the other side of the wall, followed by what Rey presumes is the mother’s voice over the T.V.

Knowing what is coming and what she intends to say, Rey’s heart beats way too hard already, and she ends up not being able to do much more than murmur as well. 

“Please, massage my chest?”

Solo’s quadriceps flex under her. While he can’t bring himself to meet her eyes from this close, she on the other hand has no qualms studying his face, the beauty marks there; the skin, warm and red with blood. 

“...to help with my anxiety. I’m sure it would help a lot with yours, too.” 

Just referring to her _ tits _out loud to Solo, and suggesting they’re some type of stress balls, is a life-changing experience. A very distinctive warmth returns between her legs, causing her to shift a bit in his lap -something she’s sure he appreciates.

“Do you mind?” She asks again, barely high enough. 

“No,” he whispers, but he doesn’t move; in fact he’s barely breathing, his other hand a ghost over her hip, not quite resting there.

She doesn’t move either; she can’t, she won’t, waiting anxiously -until finally his hand hesitantly leaves the armrest.

To make sure he doesn’t cheat, she instructs just in time, his hand about to touch her waist: “Under the blouse, please.” 

Solo doesn’t make a sound, but he still looks like a man trying to breathe underwater. It doesn’t matter: his warm, warm hand finds her naked stomach, her skin jumping slightly at the contact. 

The blouse is a bit of a tight fit for his hand, but he’s still able to get between the fabric and her skin, and he slides upward, over her ribs. She leans against him like a cat, watching his progress intently.

Solo’s touch is less shy than she expected it to be.

When he finally covers her naked breast, her chest swells, moved. He squeezes it gently, as if holding a small animal in place, making it tremble under his loving touch, her blood already angry and rushing south where she presses her thighs together.

A slow circle with the pad of his thumb earns him an appreciative hum, the nipple tightening shyly under his attention. 

He’s watching what he’s doing now. The blouse isn’t completely open, but it’s open enough for him to be able to enjoy his handiwork, her tit as humble as him but full of emotion, his too big hand pushing the fabric aside to leave it exposed. 

Rey gives her pelvis a slow roll, in a vain attempt to relieve herself of the throb there. She swallows, looking down at the scene: “...Don’t forget the other one.”

At that, his hand halts, then obediently crosses her chest. 

Although her second tit is still hiding under the fabric, it has nowhere to run. Solo’s warm hand finds it, rolling the weight just so to press it between indulgent fingers, putting it through the same treatment as the first one.

A deep inhale fills her chest and pushes the captive further into his palm, her ribs opening like a flower in the sun. 

Another _ flower _ is growing hot in the dark, and _ impatient. _Time to introduce her to the obliging accountant taking care of her heart rate. 

The skirt being a bit tight as well, Rey can only spread her knees some ten inches apart; so she shifts slightly on his lap to open them the best she can, and Solo is too conscientious and focused on his task to show any curiosity about that.

She closes her hand on the straining hem of her skirt, holding it in place to give him access. 

“Would you? Please? Do the same, here?... Between my thighs,” she adds, in case that wasn’t clear. 

Solo blushes harder, something Rey did not think possible, and his chest stops moving again, his grip tight on her hip now. 

“Sure,” he whispers sweetly. His hand retreats from her flustered tits. 

Then, as big as it is, it makes its way between her knees and disappears under the hem of her skirt, hidden completely as it progresses to its goal, the fabric straining hard when Rey tries to open her thighs just a bit more.

What Solo gives her, then, is a light touch with the back of two of his knuckles, nothing more; it coaxes a surprised groan out of her, her cunt pulsing against his fingers. 

She’s gripping the hair at his nape now, and he has no complaint to make about it, thankfully; not even a sound at the back of his throat. She doesn’t pull, but she means despite herself to keep him in place, to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere and keeps tending to her in the one way that matters.

“_ Niiice _,” she hisses like a creep against his pinkening cheek, struggling to not roll her hips. Her hand is still fisting the hem of her skirt, like a guard letting the beast dine. She clears her throat. “That’s nice.” 

Her nurse doesn’t react; he just keeps tending to her with a surprisingly steady hand.

Solo doesn’t seem to mind her huffing quietly against his cheek, thank god for that. 

With each upstroke, her chest swells in tandem with a hum, and her pelvis moves just so to try and better meet the pressure of his friendly fingers, the contact teasing through the soaked fabric of her slip.

Her face heats up, but she doesn’t think she can blush any harder than him. Solo is red like he ran a marathon; yet all he does is caress up, and down, up, and down; sometimes with the pad of his thumb, as if only meaning to lull an agitated animal.

But he’s not lulling her, _ not at all _.

Out of nowhere, Rey pushes his arm away and jumps to her feet, startling him. 

_ Enough _ , is what a man say on the other side of the wall, although it’s hard to tell if it’s not coming from the T.V.; or if it’s even the word _ enough. _

“_ Don’t move _,” she quickly instructs when Solo is about to speak -and he stills, as if bound by an invisible rope while she catches her breath, hands on her hips, her blouse open on her flushed chest for him to see. 

Briefly, to collect herself, she closes her eyes; and when she opens them, she finds herself admiring how prettily two orange blossoms have been embroidered on the side of a pillow.

The pillow Solo just placed over his lap. 

Some blood rushes back to her brain. 

With a sigh, she steps between his feet with what she hopes is a much more composed demeanor, to calmly take the pillow from his hands, off his lap, and drop it on the floor. 

His hands ball into fists again when she uncovers what he was trying to hide; but he’s a good boy, and he doesn’t try to replace the pillow with his hands. 

She supposes she was too distracted by his ministrations to notice the length growing hard against her thigh. It certainly won’t go ignored now.

“You seem pretty anxious after all,” she announces with a breathy voice, “I’ll return the favor?” 

It ends as a question, but she doesn’t wait for a response. She kneels on the rug, between his legs.

Just seeing Ben Solo from that angle, and to be seen by him in this position, is enough to inspire her for the next twenty years.

And oh, he’s clearly moved by the sight. He chokes out a sound meant to be a weak _ okay _ when she places her face right between his knees and proceeds to shamelessly stare right at the fat, heavy bulge pushing against the seam of his slacks. 

How bored she must have looked to him at the office, if he’s ever watched her without knowing, all the times she stared blankly at her screen, her face drawn.

What is he thinking now? Now that her face is warm and she’s licking her upper lip, on her knees and at his feet, with her blouse open?

“Let me find the right spot”, she says with a straight face as her hands squeeze his thighs a first time. 

Because Solo isn’t the type to show off, she pretends to test the merchandise, palming the inside him, all to better spread his legs in the process so the real star can shine. She pouts. “That doesn’t seem to be it.” 

Solo’s quiet breaths are already shallow when her hands stop shy of his groin. Rey looks up at him, happy to play the part of an innocent girl who went to pick flowers and found a rare one on her path. 

He, meanwhile, looks like a man silently praying for mercy, too shy to beg, paralyzed and waiting to be lucky for once in his life.

“Could it be…?” She whispers; although it’s clear at this point that Solo isn’t emotionally capable of appreciating any of her lines. 

His chest rises suddenly without a sound, his eyes closing when her hand finally covers the bulge, hot and tight under the fabric. 

She cups it, feeling its girth and weight; then gives it a few, circular strokes, as if to warm it up. A tender squeeze makes it throb under her palm, his left thigh jumping slightly by her shoulder. 

A long, shaky exhale above her tells her Solo appreciates her method. “Did I find it?” She asks, unable to help it, her hand starting over, slowly going back and forth over his groin. “...Feels nice?”

_ Yes _, he says, so low she nearly doesn’t hear him. 

“Should I keep doing that?”

“If you want to,” he murmurs. 

“Do you mind?”

“No.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

The neighbor’s kids squeal over the commercials. 

Solo is filling her hand so nicely. She can’t help the small smile that tugs at her lips when she sees how shiny his mouth and eyes are, proud of herself and sitting cutely on her haunches while she fondles him with a slow hand, as if this was all just a hobby they shared to pass the time together.

She knows, now, that she can do anything and Solo will just sit there and let her.

To prove herself that, she shifts closer, her face burning. 

His knuckles go white and his chest tremble when her head moves between his broad thighs, closer, closer still -so she can gently press her nose and mouth to the heat of his groin.

As if to savor it when it twitches painfully against her mouth through his slacks, she closes her eyes in bliss, then leaves it with a fat smack, the way she’d kiss her favorite pet. Solo’s lips quiver soundlessly, his skin crimson.

Rey thought she had a bit of inhibition left somewhere but it seems whatever was there is now dead and buried. She can _ feel _her own pupils dilate, zeroing in on her prey.

Solo is taking slow breaths through his nose, watching her as she unfastens his belt with calm, controlled hands despite her impatience, parting it out of her way like the red sea, pushing his shirt up his stomach. 

He watches her undo the button at the top of his zipper, unable to utter a word; his stomach stills when she slowly pulls the zipper down, and he closes his eyes for a second, the scene seemingly too much to take in without a pause. 

His shape is well defined now that his slacks are open wide, the elastic waistband of his boxers struggling it to keep it hidden from her sight. Without ceremony, she pulls it down. 

Thick, heavy with blood, it bobs and waves at her as she releases it, then comes to rest on Solo’s stomach, exhausted to carry its own weight. 

Ben Solo is a _ big man _, and his cock matches the rest of his body very nicely; like him also, it blushes. 

Rey _ cannot _ help but grin, too pleased with the sight to be able to hide it. Put it simply, she’s too happy to find that Ben Solo has such a fat and pretty cock. 

“This is yours?”

He mouths the word _ yes. _

“It’s mine now.”

“Okay,” he murmurs.

Now free to do with her toy as she pleases, she first pulls on the waistband of his boxers, and carefully tucks it right under the heavy sack, framing his balls with it, skin pulled taut over swollen flesh, as if she was wrapping a Christmas present. 

She tries to stay serious and looks up at him, proud, a hand lightly fondling his sack as she watches his nostrils flare, a bead of sweat rolling down his flushed neck. 

But this won’t do. She tugs on his pants to get him to lift his hips from the couch, enough to pull all of his offending clothes away from the leading roles. Solo does so without a word, his cock swaying in his lap, his knees hesitant to spread again. No worries. 

Rey maneuvers his feet to remove everything with exception of his white socks, and she spreads his knees herself, licking her lips. 

Solo’s breath hitches when she circles the base of his cock to hold it captive and away from her two first victims.

With a friendly hand she gathers his balls again, rolling them very gently in her palm, her thumb brushing the burning skin as if to shush it. 

“Healthy,” she comments -before she buries her face between his thighs again. 

His cock startles in her grip when she kisses the plump sack, sweet smacks on both of his balls, his knee trembling weakly when she does.

She can’t hear Solo breathe, yet his stomach follows the rhythm and moves each time she sucks on his skin, her eyelids heavy, her tongue pushing and rolling the weights inside, one, then the other.

Then, without transition, the change in tone sudden enough that Solo flinches, she holds the shaft firmly with both hands and spits in its face. 

A throb in her palms signals that his cock doesn’t resent her for it. She spreads that saliva with caring hands; faint gasps above her encourage her to spit on it again and repeat the process.

“I apologize for spitting. I know it’s not very ladylike.” 

Solo can’t speak anymore. 

When his cock is all shiny and red from embarrassment, she finally leans forward, and opens wide. 

It’s a mouthful.

With lips pursed tight around the head, she takes her time moving down, then up with a heavy sigh of relief through her nose, as if she’d been needing this like a hot bath after a workday, sucking him slow and steady, her tongue squirming lazily against the underside. 

Face strained and pink, Solo is trying hard not to move at all, she can tell, and it all feels like she caught him by the cock in the wild, and that he now can’t free himself from her pumping mouth. 

She lets herself drool on the shaft with abandon and hooded eyes for a moment, breathing steadily through her nose, before she releases it a first time, her lips pulsing and her chin wet. 

His fat, vulnerable cock sways as if disoriented, confused, but her supple mouth attacks it again, sucking it deeper inside. She pumps him long and hard without a change of pace or pressure, as if the purpose of this was only to soothe herself, repeating the motion like a mantra, the weight of his cock comforting on her tongue.

Not a month ago, Rey had never exchanged a meaningful word with Solo; today, here she is on her knees, between his legs, hugging his cock tight with her wet mouth.

Occasionally, her indulgence earns her a jerk of his hips, but the rest of the time Solo just trembles, at her mercy, struggling to stay still while she slowly drinks in his cock. She blinks slowly at him as her eyes water, her spit bubbling at the corner of her lips on the downstroke, her fist at the base spreading the coat of drool over what her mouth can’t reach. 

When it pops out of her mouth this time, the head purple and weeping, several obscene strands of spit link the innocent to the culprit. She pauses with a long, satisfied sigh, cooing as she caresses his shaft and balls with both hands to make it all shine, like a final touch.

After quickly wiping some spit off her chin, she opens her mouth again-- 

\--but two, bone-crushing hands wrap around her arms, above her elbows. 


	14. Let me in your window!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> !! PLEASE READ THIS !!
> 
> I posted TWO chapters in two days, so make sure you read the previous one before reading this one.
> 
> [Another Fanart by PeasDesign!! Please check it out, this is the second part of three, I LOVE WHAT SHE DID SO MUCH.](https://twitter.com/PeasDesign/status/1259576842480234497)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey babies, this is the end.
> 
> I want to make sure that you understand I read your comments. I read them. I read them several times, often. So I'm just letting you know again how really, deeply fucking grateful I am for how you received this fic. It means the world to me.
> 
> Special thank you to Platalet, for being one of the sweetest persons in this fandom. I love you.  
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The T.V.’s volume is now a bit louder on the other side of the wall. A man orders the children to calm down. 

Solo is leaning forward, sweat beading at his temples and nostrils flaring, his hands tight around her arms, keeping her in place. Rey blinks up at him. She’s done something irreparable. 

“What is---are you okay?” she asks --but as she does he gradually pushes her backward, getting her to sit directly on the rug while he kneels, towering over her. His hands tighten some more, almost to the point of hurting, before one of them finds her neck instead to hold her still.

His voice is strained when he replies: “I am, thank you.”

The last word is breathed on her numb lips, almost right as he presses his mouth there.

Her heart stutters, lungs trying to take enough air in when her mouth opens immediately in surrender, inviting in the slow caress of his tongue. Her spine softens, her eyes close.

She could only presume what his soft-looking mouth felt like, but it is more generous than she imagined it to be, a sharp contrast with the mean grips of his hands at her neck and arm. 

When he finally lets go of her arm to catch one of her unguarded tits instead, deepening the kiss, she hums in his mouth and just takes it, caught and unable to fight back. But her hand has a mind of its own, and she reaches down to let his cock know she hasn’t forgotten it when it pokes wetly at her stomach.

She doesn’t expect his much bigger hand to grab her wrist first, stopping her. He parts from her mouth, with damp baby hair and rosy cheeks, burning hot, something heavy in his eyes.

Before she can find anything to say in her defense, Solo folds her arm over her chest and steadily pushes her back, wordlessly, until she’s lying on the rug, her head finding the pillow she removed from his lap earlier. 

Then he sits back on his haunches between her bent legs, his hands on his thighs.

She tries to be good, so she lets him take a deep breath while he quietly surveys her, his eyes stopping on her open blouse, her waist, as if formulating a plan, a step-by-step.

Unprompted, she slowly spreads her knees, shameless, her skirt riding up her thighs. “Come in.”

He was already red, but incredibly his cheeks turn a shade darker.

To collect himself, he takes another deep breath, and still without a word, he unfastens the last three buttons holding her blouse together at her waist, careful not to touch her, which is just what causes her to squirm, restless, her heart beating much harder than a moment ago. 

She eyes his cock, her hand drawn to it as if under a spell--

-but Solo intervenes like a cruel god and pushes it away. 

She hopes she’s not pouting. “It’s cold,” she incoherently whines in sympathy for his wet dick, meaning to say she’d like to keep it warm, but she’s immediately distracted from that concern when Solo hooks his fingers on the waistband of her cotton slip. 

The wet fabric parts from her; he pulls it away and over her knees.

She can only presume Solo and her have matching blushes now. She squirms again, her knees tentatively parting, trying to breathe evenly.

Bobbing as Solo moves to leave her underwear bunched up around her ankles, his cock calls to her again, and once more, Rey tries to sit up, reaching for it instinctively, intent on making the introductions.

_ Once more _ , Solo stops her in time by gently catching her wrist; however she doesn’t miss how his lips thin this time, or how his nostrils flare. 

She expects him to gently push her back down, and he does; she  _ doesn’t  _ expect him to then grab her arm and gently roll her on her belly. 

A confused but obedient girl, she complies without questioning it, tamed, her mouth pressing into the pillow. 

She’s light-headed when Solo calmly, methodically folds her skirt to uncover her defenseless backside, her core tingling with anticipation.

She arches her back to show him the way, her face hot but hidden as she does, her heart hammering in her chest when the cool air hit her swollen lips.

Right as she turns her head to the side on the pillow, he finally lowers himself on her, his wet cock finding shelter and comfort against her ass.

Letting his weight hold her down, his breath a bit short by her ear, he kisses her sweetly on the cheek, and for some unknown reason, her body now tied to his by an enchantment, she kisses the air in front of her as if her lips were blindly searching his, trying to answer his call. Embarrassing.

Entangled around her ankles, like her own personal bear trap, her slip keeps her from spreading her feet as much as she’d like to, but with an awkward kick she frees a foot, then strains under his weight to part her legs as best she can.

Her cunt throbs, neglected, but help is on its way; Solo’s hand has found her stomach, and it’s heading south, missing the weather there.

“Can I help you with something?” She tries to ask with a casual tone, breathless, thinking herself funny. 

“No, thank you,” Solo breathes, helping himself instead.

“I’ll be over here if you need ---meeee,” she gasps, her thighs shaking, falling quiet or trying to anyway when his blunt, warm fingers part her folds. There’s no hiding from the shameful slobber they find there. Without any preamble, he draws a broad, generous circle over her helpless cunt, and she huffs into the pillow, rolling her hips a first time. 

Solo lets more of his weight immobilize her at that, his nose pressed against her temple, breathing sharply, his chest swelling against her back before he resumes, taking care of her, massaging her clit, knowing it has nowhere to go, nothing to do but take his strokes. 

A woman on the other side of the wall calls out a name, and children squeal again. The T.V. is loud; but it all becomes white noise for Rey from that moment on. 

For a solid minute, Solo calmly keeps going, and while she writhes weakly under him, she first tries not to sound too desperate. 

She gives up quickly, however, soon panting, fisting the rug, her ass pushing back against his groin.

“Okay, that’s---” She rolls her hips again, and again, but he holds her trapped between his hand and his weight, limiting her movements just enough that she ends up out of breath in no time. 

Too soon to not feel self-conscious about it, warm waves lick her core and have her stick a bit of her tongue out. She’s splayed and drooling over his fingers, the tips moving with ease, carefree, over her folds, then tightly over her clit, then back down again, around and around and around --the pressure steady and leaving the goal just out of reach. 

Rey  _ whimpers _ , pants and squirms, but eventually, before she can’t help it, she trembles under him with an angry “Ffff...fffucking... _ Put it in _ , Solo--” that immediately turns into a drawn-out whine: “What are you  _ doing _ \--”

Solo readjusts his position, cutting her off, the blunt head of his cock pressing into her. 

Mouth opening wide, trying to spread her legs better, she fists the rug as he thrusts several breathless _ “ah, ah,” _ out of her, holding her waist down. 

“I---” he chokes out against her cheek, pausing, his hand circling her chest and finding the base of her throat, holding her to him. “One second,” he breathes. 

After a few more patient thrusts, his balls are snugly resting on her tender lips, his heavy cock seated inside. 

He grinds against her ass then, and a low whine curls at the back of her throat as he does. 

She’s thankful that Solo can’t see her because she feels her eyes rolling back each time he moves his pelvis to plant himself deeper, her cunt choking on his cock, trying to swallow it all.

Meanwhile, his hand returns to its duty, sliding toward her clit to bother it with slow, loving strokes. 

His cock has made a home of her domesticated cunt, and his hand keeps working her, making her breath stutter as she tries to move but can’t, trapped like a mouse under him, forced to receive his grunts and affectionate neck kisses along with the casual smacks of his hips against her ass. 

Embarrassingly soon, carried there by his serene determination, a bright heat coils in her belly, pulsing wider with each push of his hips. She huffs, gasps, groans, but there’s nothing she can do to stop it. 

It’s there, under Solo, her face flushed, that Rey lets out a long and piercing, keening sound, burying her mouth too late into the pillow, sending the birds flying and chirping in panic inside their cage, their wings snapping behind the leaves. 

Someone turns the T.V. off on the other side of the wall. The children and the parents alike fall silent.

Solo stills while her cunt desperately tries to gulp him down, his thighs trembling against hers. When she starts to melt under him, he’s panting, his face pressed to her neck, his voice strained. “Are you alright?”

Rey grunts, struggling to open her eyes, then sighs a muffled  _ yes  _ into the pillow. 

Almost right as she says so, he pulls out, his weight leaving her. 

True to himself, Solo doesn’t make a sound when Rey turns her head just so on the pillow, right in time to see him fist his cock, his hair falling across his face and his thighs shaking, coming in his hand. A few drops land on her ass. She closes her eyes.

The sound of his belt and the rustle of fabric behind her are distant. The neighbors’ kids are talking over the T.V. again, much lower than before. Through the pillow, she hears Solo’s step retreat. The water runs in the kitchen a moment later.

She must doze off at some point, so fast that she doesn’t hear him come back. When a warm, wet cloth passes between her legs, she doesn’t even flinch or open her eyes. 

Solo wipes his come off her ass with it, carefully.  _ Look how far we’ve come, _ she can’t help but think.

  
  
  


It’s all quiet for a moment, except for the neighbors who are serving dinner. The kids are really excited to eat spaghettis. 

Other than that, Rey doesn’t hear any fabric whisper, or footsteps; and she’s just lying there, ass naked, sleepy, until the soft sound of Solo’s voice makes her eyelids flutter.

“Are you staying for dinner?” 

Incredibly, she doesn’t wonder if this is code to get her to leave, or if he’s indifferent to her answer, like she would with any other person. Even as he tries not to sound like it, she can  _ feel  _ how hopeful and unsure he is all at once. He’s been kneeling next to her in silence because he didn’t know how to ask her, or because he’s afraid of her answer.

Ironically, she doesn’t remember ever wanting to stay before, on other dates; and anyway she doesn’t remember anyone really asking her to.

Mouth pressed to the pillow, eyes barely open, she mumbles: “ _ Yes _ , Solo. I’m staying for dinner.”

  
  


Rey doesn’t fall asleep on Solo’s rug. 

When he goes back to the kitchen, she pushes on her hands to stand, and then follows him there, with the intention to pour herself a glass of water first and foremost, while he gathers what is needed to make dinner. 

Really, it’s not so different from the many times they’ve met in the office kitchen, him washing his hands at the sink, then unpacking his lunch on the counter while she’d pour herself a cup of coffee. 

She supposes the only key difference now is that she enters the kitchen in her socks, her skirt rolled up at her waist, her slip and bra left behind in the living-room, and her blouse open on her naked tits. She can’t walk quite straight either, and she thinks it’s beautiful.

A good host, Solo has put his slacks back on and tucked his shirt in, and he’s most likely washed his hands, but she’s the guest and she has nothing to apologize for. 

Timid, he stands in a corner, trying not to stare. If she had to guess he’s not proud that she looks like this because of him, but what matters is that he’s still being unable to look away. 

When she leaves the kitchen, he doesn’t even ask her where she’s going, and she doesn’t bother saying. He wouldn’t stop her anyway. 

She enters his bedroom, and one minute later, she’s removed her blouse and put on one of his sweatshirts. 

It’s so neatly folded on the chair in the corner when she spots it that it looks freshly ironed. It’s not, though; she knows, because she immediately buries her face in it to breathe in the smell. It’s oversized for her, and too warm for the season. She can tell he sleeps in it. Not tonight.

The bed too, is so much larger than hers, the warmest-looking comforter laid on it.

Between the bed and the sweatshirt, she feels like Goldilocks visiting the Great, Huge Bear’s house, if the story was that the bear lets the little girl go through his stuff without saying anything while he cooks her dinner. 

Naturally, his underwears and socks are folded and organized the Marie Kondo way, in one of his wardrobe drawers. She puts a fresh pair of boxers on, without a second thought.

When Solo glances at her, as expected, he has no objection. He only blushes hard. 

Until earlier, she had never seen Ben Solo smile ever, so it’s a shock to see one grow on his lips again, when she leans against the counter to watch him crush pistachios in a small bowl. 

He’s trying to hide that smile too, lowering his head, avoiding her eyes, but it’s there, and she wonders what he finds so amusing --until she realizes, her eyes wet, that she’s grinning hard at him, dumbly, for no reason.

Whatever it is that causes her to act dumb, it’s heady. She doesn’t feel her legs, floating, high on Solo’s pheromones and serotonin. Hopefully she’ll stay in touch with the supplier. 

She rests an elbow on the counter. 

“Excuse me, Sir?” Solo looks at her. “You single?”

The bowl slips from his hand, but it’s okay, because it just lands on the counter, one inch lower, making him jump at the sound. He swallows, lowering his eyes with a soft  _ yes. _

“Reeeally,” she drawls, enjoying herself. “A fine-looking man like you? If it isn’t my lucky day. And you’re here all alone, by yourself?” 

With a pensive pout, she cocks her head to the side and rests a hand over his bicep, absently feeling it as he tries to peel the carrots without dropping anything this time. “...Well not anymore, if you don’t mind my company.”

Solo has no instinct of self-preservation, she finds out the whole time they spend in the kitchen while he cooks. 

It’s sad for him, but thank god for her, because it means he tolerates her bad jokes, and that he even smiles again at times without anyone holding him at gunpoint.

Because she doesn’t want him to think she’s crazy, she tries not to smile too much, but it turns out to be next to impossible.

The shortest recipe according to him was chinese noodles with a wok of vegetables, some of them she didn’t know the existence of before tonight. It still takes time to prepare, especially by her standards. But Solo is clearly the type of man who can wait forever for a good thing to happen.

It smells delicious, and her stomach growls violently way before it’s ready. 

“If you knew how low my standards are, you wouldn’t have bothered,” she says above the sizzling sounds. “You could have served me an uncooked potato on a plate and I would have eaten it.”

She doesn’t catch what he says while he’s moving the food in the pan. “What?”

“This is for the birds,” he repeats, softly, so softly she could believe he means it. 

He doesn’t know how to deliver a joke.

“Oh!” She frowns, fighting back a smile again. “I’m embarrassed, I thought it was for us.”

He shakes his head.

“Right. I just remember you asking me if I was staying for  _ dinner _ ?”

“I have a plain yoghurt.” 

“Can’t wait.”

He carries their bowls and beers on a tray, when the night has fallen, to place it on the coffee table, the light from the kitchen showing the way until his hands are free. Then, he turns on several lamps around them: one by the couch, one on the bookcase, and another one by the bay window. 

Rey thinks she knows what his blush is about this time. He has to pull the coffee table closer to the couch, covering the spot where the crime happened. 

But then, she sees her slip is still on the left end of the rug, and she figures that’s not helping; so she pads to it, picks it up, and throws it across the room. It lands on the floor, by her shoes. Good enough. 

Suddenly looking worried, standing by the table, he tells her as she sits in front of her bowl, as if to reassure her: “I can sleep on the couch tonight, if you prefer.”

She quickly checks if he has anything in his hands, before reasoning, picking up two chopsticks from the tray: “I can’t fuck you into the bed if you’re on the couch, Ben.”

“Oh…” he swallows, “kay.”

They don’t have a T.V. to watch while they eat. Even the neighbors’ T.V. has been turned off; the children must be in bed. 

Peace, quiet; it all sure sounds so close to what she knows best and yet it’s somehow so at odds with the silence of her own apartment, when she eats alone at night, at her sink. 

She finishes her bowl long before he does. He’s not done when he stops, suddenly checking the time on his phone. He puts his bowl down and gets up, looking apologetic.

Taking the Kate Bush CD from the shelf, Solo explains to her that lovebirds, or pet birds in general, need rituals to go to sleep at a certain time. It sets up a bedtime and prevents them from chirping all evening. Skipping bedtime rituals could ruin the training. 

She can tell, listening to him, sitting legs crossed on the couch, that Solo enjoys the ritual as much as the birds, whatever it is, but for some reason he’s trying to hide that. 

The CD is swallowed by his sound system, and he pushes the leaves aside so she can see inside the cage. 

One of the birds is already flapping its wings in anticipation, hearing the CD whir. The other one stays put, bored.

Rey bites her lips to stop from grinning again when the first notes of Wuthering Heights come from the speakers, the volume very low but high enough that she can appreciate the song. 

As soon as Kate starts singing, the first bird bounces on its perch, with no respect for the beat, its head bobbing up and down. The other bird scoots away from it.

To better enjoy the show, Solo cautiously sits back down on the couch, a bit stiff, his embarrassment about revealing this oddity from his private life and his worry at being judged for it a bit more apparent now than earlier.

The bird flies to the wire grill with a loud chirp when the chorus starts, carried away as if this was his last representation.

“ _ Heathcliff! ...It’s me, I’m Kathy, I’ve come home, I’m so cold! Let me in your window, _ ” Kate sings while the second bird closes its eyes already. 

When the dancer is back on its perch, bouncing up and down again, Rey gets up and approaches the cage. The bird slows its dancing, cocking its head at her. 

“You’re standing too close,” Solo explains, so she steps back from the self-conscious little shit, and the bird hesitantly resumes its dancing. 

She pulls on the sleeves of the sweatshirt, at a safe distance from the cage, then opens her arms and starts bouncing lightly on her feet, following the bird’s rhythm, trying to keep a blank expression when she looks at Solo.

“Look how well I grasped their ways. Isn’t it scary?”

“Yes,” Solo says, but she continues as if he hadn’t.

“--how  _ quickly  _ I caught on, they’re already taking me as one of their own.”

Solo’s eyes betray his amusement, but he’s also trying to keep a straight face. “Are they?” He asks softly, shy again, still lacking the confidence to participate to her jokes. 

Rey won’t spare him. She keeps bouncing on her feet to Kate Bush’s voice. 

“Can you even tell the difference? Look at them. _Look at them, Solo._ Now look at me. Which is me, which is your bird? Can you even say? I’m that good.”

“I can tell because you’re talking.”

“Aw, shit. Close your eyes.” 

Now a smile plays on his lips despite his best effort; he closes his eyes without a fight. 

“Open in three, two, one---”

Solo opens his eyes, to the exact same scene of her bouncing on her feet to the rhythm of  _ Wuthering Heights _ , even though the bird is fluffing up its feathers now, preparing to sleep. 

She resists laughing for a handful of seconds until she tries to imitate the bird’s chirping, still with her arms wide open.

She nearly doesn’t hear Solo over her own giggles. “I can tell because you’re outside of the cage.”

Rey stops bouncing, arms still open. “But you admit it’s uncanny.”

“No, I don’t.”

This is more defiance than she would have expected from him. She drops her arms. “I didn’t come all this way to get bullied.”

“I’m the one being bullied by your dancing.”

Rey gapes, genuinely shocked. Solo seems unsure again, as if scared he went too far. 

She lets out a breathless laugh. “ _ I’ll show you what bullying really is _ ,” she threatens, showing her closed fist.

She takes two steps toward him as if to start a fight with him, but Solo doesn’t move, looking up at her from the couch. 

She falters suddenly, inexplicably moved by the warm, soft light on the side of his face ---and she bends, to quickly press a strong but awkward kiss on his mouth; a kiss that wants to be more and that she cuts way too short, standing back up, clearing her throat.

Solo doesn’t lower his eyes. He’s looking right at her. 

Slowly, she bends again, and presses her mouth so tenderly to his lips, an homage to his ways. He kisses her back shyly, then still doesn’t lower his eyes when she parts, even as his hands are fisting his slacks above his knees.

Her face is burning. From a kiss.

Her eyes nervously dart to their bowls on the coffee table. 

“Your cooking isn’t good _ , _ ” she tries weakly, to make good on her threat to bully him. 

He looks at her empty bowl that she wiped clean with her fingers, and before he can say anything, even if he doesn’t look like he’s about to, she adds: “I forced myself.”

Solo scoots to the edge of the couch to calmly gather her chopsticks, and her bowl. “You’re full?” He asks earnestly, as softly as ever. 

Her head snaps up. “There’s more?” 

“Yes.” He unfolds himself from the couch, her bowl in hand. 

She stays where she is as he walks back to the kitchen, to the stove. To serve her a second time.

  
  


Like most evenings before tonight, Rey now thinks about tomorrow morning, and all the things that tire her mind when the night falls. 

She thinks that she’ll have to go back to a job she hates, to perform mind-numbing tasks, waiting for the branch to close. She thinks about her empty apartment.

  
  


But tonight Ben Solo is in the room with her, standing in front of his stove. 

Strangely, the rest doesn’t matter anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad dreams in the night / They told me I was going to lose the fight / I've come home, I'm so cold / Let me in your window / Oh! Let me have it / Let me grab your soul!
> 
> If you enjoyed this story, [you can find links in my twitter bio](https://twitter.com/ao3animal). I hope you’re all well during these difficult times and that you’re taking care of yourselves. I love you, see you for the next one.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [tumblr](https://ao3animal.tumblr.com/) and a [twitter](https://twitter.com/ao3animal)  
If you're looking for more infos, you can find links in my twitter bio
> 
> Also, [here's a playlist with the songs of every chapter](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/24XKDh85kNwuwqoz8IMQ1o)


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